


THE LIBRARY 
OF 
THE UNIVERSITY 


OF CALIFORNIA 
LOS ANGELES 


FROM THE LIBRARY OI] 


JOHN F. ROSS 











THE JESTER. 


CHICOT 


CHICOT, THE JESTER 


AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE 
(SEQUEL TO “MARGUERITE DE VALOIS”) 


bY 


ALEXANDRE DUMAS 
AUTHOR OF 


“MONTE CRISTO,” ‘‘THE THREE MUSKETEERS,” ETC 


s 


~e 


y LONDON 
mEeORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS 
BrRoADWAY, LUDGATE HILL 
GLASGOW AND NEW YORK 








flsvels by Alexandre Dum 









MONTE CRISTO 


TWENTY YEARS AFTER 


THE THREE MUSKETEERS 
THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE 


MARGUERITE DE VALOIS 
CHICOT, THE JESTER 
THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN 


THE REGENT’S DAUGHTER 


MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN 
THE QUEEN'S NECKLACE 
TAKING THE BASTILE 

THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY 


THE CONSPIRATORS } 
' 





lege 
Library 


vy 
| S227 
os, DIE 


o [DBO 


MON TENT S. 





CHAPTER 
4. THE WEDDING OF ST. LUC - - - - - 
I. HOW IT IS NOT ALWAYS HE WHO OPENS THE DOOR 
WHO ENTERS THE HOUSE - - - - - 
ju. HOW IT IS SOMETIMES DIFFICULT TO DISTINGUISH 
A DREAM FROM THE REALITY - - - - 
IV. HOW MADAME DE ST. LUC HAD PASSED THE NIGHT 
¥. HOW MADAME DF ST. LUC PASSED THE SECOND 
NIGHT OF HER MARRIAGE. - - - - 
VI. LE PETIT COUCHER OF HENRI IIL - - - - 
Vil. HOW, WITHOUT ANY ONE KNOWING WHY, THE KING 
WAS CONVERTED BEFORE THE NEXT DAY - - 
VIII. HOW THE KING WAS AFRAID OF BEING AFRAID - 
IX. HOW THE ANGEL MADE A MISTAKE AND SPOKE TO 
“CHICOT, THINKING IT WAS THE KING - - 
X. HOW BUSSY WENT TO SEEK FOR THE REALITY OF 
HIS DREAM - - - - - - - - 
XI. M. BRYAN DE MONSOREAU - - - - - 
XII. HOW BUSSY FOUND BOTH THE PORTRAIT AND THE 
ORIGINAL - - - - - - - - 
XITl. WHO DIANA WAS - - - = - - - 
XV. HOW HENRY II. TRAVELLED, AND HOW LONG IT 
TOOK HIM TO GET FROM PARIS TO FONTAINE- 
BLEAU - - - - - - - - - 


455 9162 


iv 

CHAPTER 
XVIII. 
>.GW.G 

». 0.6 

XXI. 
XXII. 
e405 
XXIV. 
XXV. 


XXXVI. 


XXVITI. 


XXVIII. 


XXIX. 


XXX. 


: —. 
ie . 
prs 

oxxXITT 


co Pn 







CONTENTS. 


BROTHER GORENFLOT~ - - - - - = 
HOW CHICOT FOUND OUT THAT IT WAS EASIER TO 
GO IN THAN OUT OF THE ABBEY - - - 
HOW CHICOT, FORCED TO REMAIN IN THE ABBEY, 
SAW AND HEARD THINGS VERY DANGEROUS TO 
SEE AND HEAR - - - - - - - 
HOW CHICOT LEARNED GENEALOGY - - - 
HOW M. AND MADAME DE ST. LUC MET WITH A 
TRAVELLING COMPANION” - - - - - 
THE OLD MAN - - - - - - - - 
HOW REMY-LE-HAUDOUIN HAD, IN BUSSY’S ABSENCE, 
ESTABLISHED A COMMUNICATION WITH THE RUE 
ST. ANTOINE - - - - - - - 
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER - - - - - 
HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT AWOKE, AND THE RE- 
CEPTION HE MET WITH AT HIS CONVENT - 
HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT REMAINED CONVINCED 
THAT HE WAS A SOMNAMBULIST, AND BITTERLY 
DEPLORED THIS INFIRMITY - - - - 
HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT TRAVELLED UPON AN 
ASS, NAMED PANURGE, AND LEARNED MANY 
THINGS HE DID NOT KNOW BEFORE - - - 
HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT CHANGED HIS ASS FOR 
A MULE, AND HIS MULE FOR A HORSE - - 
HOW CHICOT AND HIS COMPANION INSTALLED 
THEMSELVES AT THE HOTEL OF THE CROSS, 
AND HOW THEY WERE RECEIVED EY THE HOST 


\ A 
HOW THE MONK CONFESSED THE ADVOCATE, AND 


‘THE ADVOCATE THE MONK - - = - 


HOW CHICOT USED HIS SWORD . all 


HOW THE DUC D’ANJOU LeaRED an DIANA 
“WAS NOT DEAD - - - aa | - : 


- 


‘XXXIV, HOW CHICOT RETURNED TO THE LOUVRE, AND WAS 
~~ SS Recuivep"zy THE KING HENRI IL - — - 


128 


141 


143 


146 


149 
154 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 
XXXV. WHAT PASSED BETWEEN M. DE MONSOREAU AND 
THE DUKE - - - - - - : 
XXXVI. CHICOT AND THE KING - - - - - 
XXXVII. WHAT M. DE GUISE CAME TO DO AT THE LOUVRE 
XXXVIII. CASTOR AND POLLUX. - - - - - = 
XXXIX. IN WHICH IT IS PROVED THAT LISTENING IS THE 
BEST WAY TO HEAR - - - - - 
XL. THE EVENING OF THE LEAGUE - - = 2 
XLI. THE RUE DE LA FERRONNERIE - - - - 
XLII. THE PRINCE AND THE FRIEND  - - - - 
XLII. ETYMOLOGY OF THE RUE DE LA JUSSIENNE - 
XLIV. HOW D’EPERNON HAD HIS DOUBLET TORN, AND 
HOW SCHOMBERG WAS STAINED BLUE - = 
XLV. CHICOT MORE THAN EVER KING OF FRANCE) - 
XLVI. HOW CHICOT PAID A VISIT TO BUSSY, AND WHAT 
FOLLOWED - - - - - - - 
XLVII. THE CHESS OF M. CHICOT, AND THE CUP AND BALL 
OF M. QUELUS - - - - - - - 
XLVIII. THE RECEPTION OF THE CHIEFS OF THE LEAGUE 
XLIX. HOW THE KING NAMED A CHIEF WHO WAS NEITHER 
THE DUC DE GUISE NOR M. D’ANJOU_ - - 
L. ETEOCLES AND POLYNICES - - : : 3 
~ LL HOW PEOPLE DO NOT ALWAYS LOSE THEIR TIME 
BY SEARCHING EMPTY DRAWERS - - = 
LII. VENTRE ST. GRIS - - == - - - 
LI. THE FRIENDS - - - = Niwa ea» = - 
LIV. BUSSY AND DIANA = 3 
“Lv. HOW BUSSY WAS OFFERED THREE HUNDRED 
PISTOLES FOR HIS HORSE, AND PARTED WITH 


ue HIM FOR NOTHING -  - - ‘+ Sgpuaegieudh 
“LVI. THE DIPLOMACY OF THE DUC D’ANJOU =~ Ye 
LVII. THE IDEAS OF THE DUC D’ANJOU - pea Por 
Pom, AsFLIGHT OF ANGEVINS ght os-. A= = 47 
LIX. ROLAND - - - 2 ee 6 - | Cee 


vi 





CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER 
LX. WHAT M. DE MONSOREAU CAME TO ANNOUNCE - 
LXI. HOW THE KING LEARNED THE PLIGHT OF HIS 
BELOVED BROTHER, AND WHAT FOLLOWED - 
LX. HOW, AS CHICOT AND THE QUREN-MOTHER WERE 
AGREED, THE KING BEGAN TO AGREE WITII 


THEM - - - - - . - - 
LXIII. IN WHICH IT IS FROVED THAT GRATITUDE WAS 
ONE OF ST. LUC’S VIRTUES - - - - 

LXIV. THE PROJECT OF M. DE ST. LUC - - - 


LXV. HOW M. DE ST. LUC SHOWED M. DE MONSOREAU 
THE THRUST THAT THE KING HAD TAUGHT 

HIM - - . - - - - - - 

LXVI. IN WHICH WE SEE THE QUEEN-MOTHER ENTER 
THE TOWN OF ANGERS, BUT NOT TRIUM- 
PHANTLY - - - - - - - - 

LXVII. LITTLE CAUSES AND GREAT EFFECTS : - 
LXVIII. HOW M. DE MONSOREAU OPENED AND SHUT HIS 
EYES, WHICH PROVED THAT HE WAS NOT DEAD 

LXIX. HOW M. LE DUC D’ANJOU WENT TO MERIDOR TO 
CONGRATULATE MADAME DE MONSOREAU ON 

THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND, AND FOUND 

HIM THERE BEFORE HIM - - a¥ f° 

LXX. THE INCONVENIENCE QF LARGE LITTERS AND 
NARROW DOORS - . 4 . -— = 

LXXI, WHAT TEMPER THE KING WAS IN WHEN ST. LUC 
REAPPEARED AT THE LOUVRE - = - 

LXXII. IN WHICH WE MEET TWO IMPORTANT PERSON- 
AGES WHOM WE HAVE LOST SIGHT OF FOR 

SOME TIME - - - - - - - 

LXXIII. DIANA’S SECOND JOURNEY TO PARIS- = - - 
-LXXIV. HOW THE AMBASSADOR OF THE DUC D’ANJOU 
- ARRIVED AT THE LOUVRE, AND THE RECEP- 
TION HE MET WITH - - > i. one 


- 


LXXY. WHICH IS ONLY THE END OF THE PRECEDING ONE 


4 


CONTENTS. vil 


HOW M. DE ST. LUC ACQUITTED HIMSELF OF THE 
COMMISSION GIVEN TO HIM BY BUSSY - =. 356 

IN WHAT RESPECT M, DE ST. LUC WAS MORE 
CIVILISED THAN M. DE BUSSY, THE LESSONS 
WHICH HE GAVE HIM, AND THE USE WHICH 


M. DE BUSSY MADE OF THEM - - - 2. 320" 
. THE PRECAUTIONS OF M. DE MONSOREAU - - "923 
A VISIT TO THE HOUSE AT LES TOURNELLES - 326 
THE WATCHERS - - - - - - - 330 
HOW M. LE DUC D’ANJOU SIGNED, AND, AFTER 
HAVING SIGNED, SPOKE - - - : - 334 
A PROMENADE AT THE TOURNELLES - - - 341 
IN WHICH CHICOT SLEEPS - - - - - 343 
WHERE CHICOT WAKES - - - - - 345 
THE FETE DIEU - - - - - - - 348 
. WHICM WILL ELUCIDATE THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER 353 
THE PROCESSION - - - - - - 358 
CHICOT THE FIRST - - - - - - 362 
INTEREST AND CAPITAL - - - - - 365 


WHAT WAS PASSING NEAR THE BASTILLE WHILE 
CHICOT WAS PAYING HIS DEBY TO M. DE 

. MAYENNE- - - - - - - - 3638 

THE ASSASSINATION - - - - = = 372 

HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT FOUND HIMSELF MORE 
THAN EVER BETWEEN AGALLOWS AND AN ABBEY 389 

WHERE CHICOT GUESSES WHY D’EPERNON HAD 
BLOOD ON HIS FEET AND NONE IN HIS CHEEKS 384 


THE MORNING OF THE COMBAT . - - - 388 
THE FRIENDS OF BUSSY_ - - - - = | 390.49 
THE COMBAT - - - - - - - 


THE END - se iar - é ‘ set oe 
*. 








maeroO?, [HE JESTER. 


CHAPTER 1. 
THE WEDDING OF ST. LUC. 


On the evening of a Sunday, in the year 1578, a splendid féte 
was given in the magnificent hotel just built opposite the 
Louvre, on the other side of the water, by the family of Mont- 
morency, who, allied to the royalty of France, held themselves 
equal to princes. This féte was to celebrate the wedding of 
Francois d’Epinay de St. Luc, a great friend and favourite of 
the king, Henri III., with Jeanne de Cossé-Brissac, daughter of 
the marshal of that name. 

The banquet had taken place at the Louvre, and the king, 
who had been with much difficulty induced to consent to the 
marriage, had appeared at it with a severe and grave counte- 
nance. His costume was in harmony with his face; he wore 
that suit of deep chestnut, in which Clouet described him at the 
wedding of Joyeuse ; and this kind of royal spectre, solemn and. 
majestic, had chilled all the spectators, but above all the young 
bride, at whom he cast many angry glances. ‘The reason of all 
this was known to every one, but was one of those court secrets 
of which no one likes to speak. 

~ Scarcely was the repast finished, when the king haa nsen 
abruptly, thereby forcing every one to do the same. Then 
St. Luc approached him, and said: “ Sire, will your majesty do 
me the honour to accept the féte, which I wish to give to you 
this evening at the Hdtel Montmorency?” ‘This was said in an 
imploring tone, but Henri, with a voice betraying both vexation 
and anger, had replied : 

I 


2 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Yes, monsieur, we will go, although you certainly do not 
merit this proof of friendship on our part.” 

Then Madame de St. Luc had humbly thanked the king, but 
he turned his back without replying. 

“Ts the king angry with you?” asked the young wife of her 
husband. ; 

“T will explain it to you after, mon amie, when this anger 
shall have passed away.” 

“ And will it pass away ?” 

rt must,” 

Mademoiselle de Brissac was not yet sufficiently Madame de 
St. Luc to insist further ; therefore she repressed her curiosity, 
promising herself to satisfy it at a more favourable time. 

They were, therefore, expecting St. Luc at the Hotel Mont- 
morency, at the moment in which our story commences. St. 
Luc had invited all the king’s friends and all his own; the 
princes and their favourites, particularly those of the Duc 
d’Anjou. He was always in opposition to the king, but in a 
hidden manner, pushing forward those of his friends whom the 
example of La Mole and Coconnas had not cured. Of course, 
his favourites and those of the king lived in a state of antago- 
nism, which brought on rencontres two or three times a month, 
in which it was rare that some one was not killed or badly 
wounded. 

As for Catherine, she was at the height of her wishes ; her 
favourite son was on the throne, and she reigned through him, 
while she pretended to care no more for the things of this 
world. St. Luc, very uneasy at the absence of all the royal 
family, tried to reassure his father-in-law, who was much dis- 
tressed at this menacing absence. Convinced, like all the 
world, of the friendship of Henri for St. Luc, he had believed 
he was assuring the royal favour, and now this looked like a 
disgrace. St. Luc tried hard to inspire in them a security which 
he did not feel himself; and his friends, Maugiron, Schomberg, 
and Quelus, clothed in their most magnificent dresses, stiff in 
their splendid doublets, with enormous frills, added to his 
annoyance by their ironical lamentations. 

“Eh! mon Dieu! my poor friend,” said Jacques de Levis, 
Comte de Quelus, “I believe now that you are done for. The 
king is angry that you would not take his advice, and M. 
d’Anjou because you laughed at his nose.” 

‘“No, Quelus, the king does aot come, because he has made 


THE WEDDING OF ST. LUC. 2 


a pilgrimage to the monks of the Bois de Vincennes; and the 
Duc d’Anjou is absent, because he 1 is in love with some woman 
whom I have forgotten to invite.” 

“But,” said Maugiron, “did you see the king’s face at 
dinner? And as for the duke, if he could not come, his 
gentlemen might. ‘There is not one here, not even Bussy.” 

“Oh! gentlemen,” said the Duc de Brissac, in a despairing 
tone, “it looks like a complete disgrace. Mon Dieu! how can our 
house, always so devoted to his majesty, have displeased him ?” 

The young men received this speech with bursts of laughter, 
which did not tend to soothe the marquis. The young bride 
was also wondering how St. Luc could have displeased the 
king. All at once one of the doors opened and the king was 
announced. 

“Ah!” cried the marshal, “ now I fear nothing; if the Duc 
d’Anjou would but come, my satisfaction would be complete.” 

“ And IJ,” murmured St. Luc; ‘I have more fear of the king 
present than absent, for I fear he comes to play me some spite- 
ful tricks.” 

But, nevertheless, he ran to meet the king, who had quitted 
at last his sombre costume, and advanced resplendent in satin, 
feathers, and jewels. But at the instant he entered another 
door opened just opposite, and a second Henri III., clothed 
exactly like the first, appeared, so that the courtiers, who had 
run to meet the first, turned round at once to look at the 
second. 

Henri III. saw the movement, and exclaimed : 

“What is the matter, gentlemen ?” 

A burst of laughter was the reply. The king, not naturally 
patient, and less so that day than usual, frowned; but St. Luc 
approached, and said : 

“Sire, it is Chicot, your jester, who is dressed exactly like 
your majesty, and is giving his hand to the ladies to kiss.” 

Henri laughed. Chicot enjoyed at his court a liberty similar 
to that enjoyed thirty years before by Triboulet at the court of 
Francois I., and forty years after by Longely at the court of 
Louis XIII. Chicot was not an ordinary jester. Before being 
Chicot he had been ‘“‘ De Chicot.” He was a Gascon gentle- 
man, who, ill-treated by M. de Mayenne on account of a rivalry 
in a love affair, in which Chicot had been victorious, had taken 
refuge at court, and prayed the king for his protection by telling 
him the truth. 


i-—Z 


4 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Eh, M. Chicot,” said Henri, “two kings at a time are too 
much.” 

“Then,” replied he, “let me continue to be one, and you 
play Duc d’Anjou ; perhaps you will be taken for him, and 
learn something of his doings.” 

“So,” said Henri, looking round him, “ Anjou is not here.” 

“The more reason for you to replace him. It is settled, 
Tam Henri, and you are Francois. I will play the king, while 
you dance and amuse yourself a little, poor king.” 

** You are right, Chicot, I will dance.” 

“Decidedly,” thought De Brissac, “I was wrong to think the 
king angry ; he is in an excellent humour.” 

Meanwhile St. Luc had approached his wife. She was not a 
beauty, but she had fine black eyes, white teeth, and a dazzling 
complexion. 

“ Monsieur,” said she to her husband, “why did they say 
that the king was angry with me; he has done nothing but 
smile on me ever since he came ?” 

“You did not say so after dinner, dear Jeanne, for his look 
then frightened you.” 

“His majesty was, doubtless, out of humour then, but 
now - 

“‘ Now, it is far worse; he smiles with closed lips. I would 
rather he showed me his teeth. Jeanne, my poor child, he is 
preparing for us some disagreeable surprise. Oh! do not look 
at me so tenderly, I beg; turn your back to me. Here is 
Maugiron coming ; converse with him, and be amiable to him.” 

‘That is a strange recommendation, monsieur.” 

But St. Luc left his wife full of astonishment, and went to 
pay his court to Chicot, who was playing his part with a most 
laughable majesty. 

The king danced, but seemed never to lose sight of St. Luc. 
Sometimes he called him to repeat to him some pleasantry, 
which, whether droll or not, made St. Luc laugh heartily. 
Sometimes he offered him out of his comfit box sweetmeats 
and candied fruits, which St. Luc found excellent. If he dis- 
appeared for an instant, the king sent for him, and seemed not 
happy if he was out of his sight. All at once a voice rose above 
all the tumult. 

“Oh !” said Henri, “I think I hear the voice of Chicot; do 
you hear, St. Luc ?— the king is angry.” 

“Yes, sire, it sounds as though he were quarrelling with 
some one.” 





THE WEDDING OF ST. LUC. 5 


“Go and see what it is, and come back and tell me.” 

As St. Luc approached he heard Chicot crying : 

““T have made sumptuary laws, but if they are not enough I 
will make more ; at least they shall be numerous, if they are not 
good. By the horn of Beelzebub, six pages, M. de Bussy, are 
too much.” 

And Chicot, swelling out his cheeks, and putting his hand 
to his side, imitated the king to the life. 

“What does he say about Bussy ?” asked the king, when St. 
Luc returned. St. Luc was about to reply, when the crowd 
opening, showed to him six pages, dressed in cloth of gold, 
covered with chains, and bearing on their breasts the arms of 
their masters, sparkling in jewels. Behind them came a young 
man, handsome and proud, who walked with his head raised 
and a haughty look, and whose simple dress of black velvet 
contrasted with the splendour of his pages. This was Bussy 
d’Amboise. Maugiron, Schomberg, and Quelus had drawn 
near to the king. 

“See,” said Maugiron, “here is the servant, but where is the 
master? Are you also in disgrace with him, St. Luc?” 

“Why should he follow Bussy ?” said Quelus. 

“Do you not remember that when his majesty did M. de 
Bussy the honour to ask him if he wished to belong to him, he 
replied that, being of the House of Clermont, he followed no 
one, and belonged to himself.” 

The king frowned. 

“Vet,” said Maugiron, “whatever you say, he serves the Duc 
d’Anjou.” 

“Then it is because the duke is greater than the king.” 

No observation could have been more annoying to the king 
than this, for he detested the Duc d’Anjou. ‘Thus, although he 
did not answer, he grew pale. 

“Come, come, gentlemen,” said St. Luc, trembling, “a little 
charity for my guests, if you please; do not spoil my wedding- 
day.” 

“ Yes,” said the king, in a mocking tone; ‘“‘do not spoil St. 
Luc’s wedding-day.” 

“Oh !” said Schomberg, ‘is Bussy allied to the Brissacs >— 
since St. Luc defends him.” 

“ He is neither my friend nor relation, but he is my guest,” 
said St. Luc. The king gave an angry look. “Besides,” he 
hastened to add, ‘I do not defend him the least in the world.” 


6 CHI COTTE ATS Sees 


Bussy approached gravely behind his pages to salute the 
king, when Chicot cried: 

“Oh, la! Bussy d’Amboise, Louis de Clermont, Comte de 
Bussy, do you not see the true Henri, do you not know the 
true king from the false? He to whom you are going is Chicot, 
my jester, at whom I so often laugh.” 

Bussy continued his way, and was about to bow before the 
king, when he said : ‘ 

“Do you not hear, M. de Pussy, you are called ? and, 
amidst shouts of laughter from his minions, he turned his back 
to the young captain. Bussy reddened with anger, but he 
affected to take the king’s remark seriously, and turning round 
towards Chicot : 

“Ah! pardon, sire,” said he, “ there are kings who resemble 
jesters so much, that you will excuse me, I hope, for having 
taken a jester for a king.” 

‘‘ Hein,” murmured Henri, “ what does he say?” 

“ Nothing, sire,” said St. Luc. 

“‘ Nevertheless, M. Bussy,” said Chicot ; “it was unpardon. 
able.” 

“Sire, I was preoccupied.” 

“With your pages, monsieur,” said Chicot; “you ruin yourself 
in pages, and, par la mordieu, it is infringing our prerogatives.” 

“How so? I beg your majesty to explain.” 

“Cloth of gold for them, while you a gentleman, a colonel, a 
Clermont, almost a prince, wear simple black velvet.” 

“¢ Sire,” said Bussy, turning towards the king’s minions, “as 
we live in a time when lackeys dress like princes, I think it 
good taste for princes to dress like lackeys.” 

And he returned to the young men in their splendid dress the 
impertinent smiles which they had bestowed on him a little 
before. They grew pale with fury, and seemed only to wait the 
king’s permission to fall upon Bussy. 

“Ts it for me and mine that you say that >?” asked Chicot, 
speaking like the king. 

Three friends of Bussy’s now drew near to him. These were 
Charles d’Antragues, Fran¢ois, Vicomte de Ribeirac, and Livarot. 
Seeing all this, St. Luc guessed that Bussy was sent by Monsieur 
to provoke a quarrel. He trembled more than ever, for he feared 
the combatants were about to take his house for a battle-field. 
He ran to Quelus, who already had his hand on his sword, and 
said, ‘“‘ In Heaven’s name be moderate.” 


—=—S 


iw 
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SE AEE 
=SSe= 
= 












































BUSSY D’ AMBOISEF. 


THE WEDDING OF ST. LUC. 7 


“Parbleu, he attacks you as well as us.” 

“Quelus, think of the Duc d’Anjou, who supports Bussy ; 
you do not suppose I fear Bussy himself ?” 

“Eh! Mordieu, what need we fear ; we belong to the king. 
If we get into peril for him he will help us.” 

“You, yes; but me,” said St. Luc, piteously. 

“Ah, dame, why do you marry, knowing how jealous the 
king is in his friendships ?” 

‘“‘ Good,” thought St. Luc, “ every one for himself; and as I 
wish to live tranquil during the first fortnight of my marriage, I 
will make friends with M. Bussy.” And he advanced towards 
him. After his impertinent speech, Bussy had looked round 
the room to see if any one would take notice of it. Seeing St. 
Luc approach, he thought he had found what he sought. 

‘“‘Monsieur,” said he, “is it to what I said just now, that I 
owe the honour of the conversation you appear to desire ?” 

“Of what you have just said, I heard nothing. No, I saw 
you, and wished to salute you, and thank you for the honour you 
have have done me by your presence here.” 

Bussy, who knew the courage of St. Luc, understood at once 
that he considered the duties of a host paramount, and answered 
him politely. 

Henri, who had seen the movement said, ‘Oh, oh! I fear 
there is mischief there ; I cannot have St. Luc killed. Go and 
see, Quelus ; no, you are too rash-—you, Maugiron.” 

But St. Luc did not let him approach Bussy, but came to 
meet him, and returned with him to the king. 

“What have you been saying to that coxcomb ?” asked the 
king. 

cote sire 2” 

Saves. you.” 

““T said, good evening.” 

“Oh? was that all? 

St. Luc saw he was wrong. “I said, good evening; adding, 
that I would have the honour of saying good morning to- 
morrow.” 

** Ah! I suspected it.” 

“Will your majesty keep my secret ?” said St. Luc. 

“Oh! parbleu, if you could get rid of him without injury to 
yourself———” 

The minions exchanged a rapid glance, which Henri III. 
seemed not to notice, 


8 CHICOT, THE JESIEX 


cOnOn continued he, “his insolence is too much.” 

ee Yes, yes,” said St. Luc, “ but some day he will find his 
master.” 

“Oh!” said the king, “he manages the sword well. Why 
does he not get bit by some dog?” And he threw a spiteful 
glance on Bussy, who was walking about, laughing at all the 
king’ s friends. 

“Corbleu!” cried Chicot, ‘do not be so rude to my friends, 
M. Bussy, for I draw the sword, though I am a king, as well as 
if I was a common man.” 

“If he continue such pleasantries, I will chastise Chicot, 
sire,” said Maugiron. 

“ No, no, Maugiron, Chicot is a gentleman. Besides, it is 
not he who most “deserves punishment, for it is not he who is 
most insolent.” 

This time there was no mistaking, and Quelus made signs to 
D’O and D’Epernon, who had been in a different part of the 
room, and had not heard what was going on. “Gentlemen,” 
said Quelus, “come to the council; “you, St. Luc, go and 
finish making your peace with the king.” 

St. Luc approached the king, while the others drew back inte 
a window. 

“‘ Well,” said D’Epernon, “what do you want? I was making 
love, and I jvarn you, if your recital be not interesting I shall be 
very angry.” 

“‘T wish to tell you that after the ball I set off for the chase.” 

“For what chase ?” 

“That of the wild boar.” 

“What possesses you to go, in this cold, to be killed in some 
thicket ?” 

“Never mind, I am going.” 

“¢ Alone ?” 

“No, with Maugiron and Schomberg. We hunt for the 
king.” 

“Ah! yes, I understand,” said Maugiron and Schomberg. 

“The king wishes a boar’s head for breakfast to-morrow.” 

“With the neck dressed & I’Italienne,” said Maugiron, allud- 
ing to the turn-down collar which Bussy wore in opposition to 
their ruffs. 

“‘ Ah, ah,” said D’Epernon, “I understand.” 

“ What is it?” asked D’O, “for I do not.” 

“ Ah! look round you.” 


THE WEDDING OF ST, LUC. 9 


evel 

“ Did any one laugh at us here ?” 

“Yes, Bussy.” 

“ Well, that is the wild boar the king wants.” 

“ You think the king——’” 

“ He asks for it.” 

“ Well, then, so be it. But how do we hunt?” 

“In ambush; it is the surest.” 

Bussy remarked the conference, and, not doubting that they 
were talking of him, approached, with his friends. 

“Took, Antragues, look Ribeirac,” said he, “how they are 
grouped ; it is quite touching ; it might be Euryale and Nisus, 
Damon and Pythias, Castor and—-—. But where is Pollux ?” 

“ Pollux is married, so that Castor is left alone.” 

‘What can they be doing ?” 

“J bet they are inventing some new starch.” 

“No, gentlemen,” said Quelus, “we are talking of the 
chase.” 

“Really, Signor Cupid,” said Bussy ; “it is very cold for 
that. It will chap your skin.” 

“ Monsieur,” replied Maugiron, politely, “we have warm 
gloves, and doublets lined with fur.” 

“Ah! that reassures me,” said Bussy ; “ do you go soon?” 

“To-night, perhaps.” 

“In that case I must warn the king; what will he say to- 
morrow, if he finds his friends have caught cold 2” 

“Do not give yourself that trouble, monsieur,” said Quelus, 
“his majesty knows it.” 

“Do you hunt larks ?” asked Bussy, with an impertinent air. 

‘No, monsieur, we hunt the boar. We wanta head. Will 
you hunt with us, M. Bussy ?” 

“No, really, I cannot. ‘To-morrow I must go to the Duc 
@’Anjou for the reception of M. de Monsoreau, to whom mon- 
seigneur has just given the place of chief huntsman.” 

“ But, to-night ?” 

“ Ah! to-night, I have a rendezvous in a mysterious house 
of the Faubourg St. Antoine.” 

“Ah! ah!” said D’Epernon, “is the Queen Margot here, 
incognito, M. de Bussy ?” 

“No, it is some one else.” 

“Who expects you in the Faubourg St. Antoine Ee 

“Just so, indeed I will ask your advice, M. de Quelus.” 


10 CHI GOT: Tid LSE De 


“Do so, although I am nota lawyer, I give very good advice.* 

“They say the streets of Paris are unsafe, and that is a lonely 
place. Which way do you counsel me to take?” , 

“Why, I advise you to take the ferry-boat at the Pré-aux- 
Clercs, get out at the corner, and follow the quay until you 
arrive at the great Chatelet, and then go through the Rue de la 
Tixanderie, until you reach the faubourg. Once at the corner 
of the Rue St. Antoine, if you pass the Hotel des Tournelles 
without accident, rt is probable you will arrive safe and sound 
at your mysterious house.” 

“Thanks for your route, M. de Quelus, I shall be sure to 
follow it.” And saluting the five friends, he went away. 

As Bussy was crossing the last saloon where Madame de St. 
Luc was, her husband made a sign to her. She understood at 
once, and going up, stopped him. 

“Oh! M. de Bussy,” said she, ‘‘ every one is talking of a 
sonnet you have made.” 

“‘ Against the king, madame ?” 

“No, in honour of the queen ; do tell it to me.” 

“‘Willingly, madame,” and, offering his arm to her, he went 
off, repeating it. 

During this time, St. Luc drew softly near his friends, and 
heard Quelus say : 

“The animal will not be difficult to follow ; thus then, at the 
corner of the Hotel des Tournelles, opposite the Hétel St. Pol.” 

“With each a lackey?” asked D’Epernon. 

“No, no, Nogaret, let us be alone, and keep our own secret, 
and do our own work. I hate him, but he is too much a 
gentleman for a lackey to touch.” 

“Shall we go out all six together ?” 

“« All five if you please,” said St. Luc. 

“‘ Ah! it is true, we forgot your wife.” 

They heard the king’s voice calling St. Luc. 

“Gentlemen,” said he, “the king calls me. Good sport, 
au revoir.” 

And he left them, but instead of going straight to the king, 
he ran to where Bussy stood with his wife. 

‘Ah! monsieur, how hurried you seem,” said Bussy. “ Are 
you going also to join the chase ; it would be a proof of your 
courage, but not of your gallantry.” 

“Monsieur, I was seeking you.” 

*« Keally.” 


THE WEDDING OF ST. LUC. Il 


& And I was afraid you were gone. Dear Jeanne, tell your 
father to try and stop the king, whilst I say a few words téte-a- 
téte to M. Bussy.” Jeanne went. 

‘J wish to say to you, monsieur,” continued St. Luc, “ that 
if you have any rendezvous to-night, you would do well to put 
it off, for the streets are not safe, and, above all, to avoid the 
Hotel des Tournelles, where there is a place where several men 
could hide. This is what I wished to say; I know you fear 
nothing, but reflect.” 

At this moment they heard Chicot’s voice crying, “St. Luc, 
St. Luc, do not hide yourself, I am waiting for you to return to 
the Louvre.” 

“Here I am, sire,” cried St. Luc, rushing forward. Near 
Chicot stood the king, to whom one page was giving his ermine 
mantle, and another a velvet mask lined with satin. 

“Sire,” said St. Luc, “I will have the honour of lighting 
your majesties to your litters.” 

“No,” said Henri, “ Chicot goes one way, and I another. 
My friends are good-for-nothings, who have run away and left 
me to return alone to the Louvre. I had counted on them, 
and you cannot let me go alone. You are a grave married 
man, and must take me back to the queen. Come, my friend, 
my litter is large enough for two.” 

Madame de St. Luc, who had heard this, tried to speak, and 
to tell her father that the king was carrying away her husband, 
put he, placing his fingers on his mouth, motioned her to be 
silent. 

“T am ready, sire,” said-he, “to follow you.” 

When the king took leave, the others followed, and Jeanne 
was left alone. She entered her room, and knelt down before 
the image of a saint to pray, then sat down to wait for her 
husband’s return. M. de Brissac sent six men to the Louvre 
to attend him back. But two hours after one of them returned, 
saying, that the Louvre was closed, and that before closing, the 
captain of the watch had said, “It is useless to wait longer, no 
one will leave the Louvre to-night ; his majesty is in bed.” 

The marshal carried this news to his daughter. 


12 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


CHAPTER II. 


How IT IS NOT ALWAYS HE WHO OPENS THE DOOR, WHO 
ENTERS THE HOUSE. 


Tur Porte St. Antoine was a kind of vault in stone, similar to 
our present Porte St. Denis, only it was attached by its left side 
to buildings adjacent to the Bastille. ‘The space at the right, 
between the gate and the Hétel des Tournelles, was large and 
dark, little frequented by day, and quite solitary at night, for all 
passers-by took the side next to the fortress, so as to be in 
some degree under the protection of the sentinel. Of course, 
winter nights were still more feared than summer ones. 

That on which the events which we have recounted, and are 
about to recount, took place, was cold and black. Before the 
gate on the side of the city, was no house, but only high walls, 
those of the church of St. Paul, and of the Hotel des Tour- 
nelles. At the end of this wall was the niche of which St. Luc 
had spoken to Bussy. No lamps lighted this part of Paris at 
that epoch. In the nights when the moon charged herself with 
the lighting of the earth, the Bastille rose sombre and majestic 
against the starry blue of the skies, but on dark nights, there 
seemed only a thickening of the shadows where it stood. On 
the night in question, a practised eye might have detected in 
the angle of the wall of the Tournelles several black shades, 
which moved enough to show that they belonged to poor devils 
of human bodies, who seemed to find it difficult to preserve 
their natural warmth as they stood there. ‘The sentinel from 
the Bastille, who could not see them on account of the dark- 
ness, could not hear them either, for they talked almost in 
whispers. However, the conversation did not want interest. 

“This Bussy was right,” said one; “it is a night such as we 
had at Warsaw, when Henri was King of Poland, and if this 
continues we shall freeze.” 

“Come, Maugiron, you complain like a woman,” replied 
another: “it is not warm, I confess; but draw your mantle 
over your eyes, and put your hands in your pockets, and you 
will not feel it.” 

“Really, Schomberg,” said a third, “it is easy to see you 


are German. As for me, my lips bleed. and my mustachios are 
stiff with ice.” 


FAILS TO ENTER THE HOUSE. IZ 


“Tt is my hands,” said a fourth; ‘‘on my honour, I would 
not swear I had any.” 

“ You should have taken your mamma’s muff, poor Quelus,” 
said Schomberg. 

‘Eh! mon Dieu, have patience,” said a fifth voice; “you 
will soon be complaining you are hot.” 

“T see some one coming through the Rue St. Paul,” said 
Quelus. 

“Tt cannot be him; he named another route.” 

“ Might he not have suspected something, and changed it ?” 

“ Vou do not know Bussy ; where he said he should go, he 
would go, if he knew that Satan himself were barring his 
passage.” 

“ However, here are tvo men coming.” 

“Ma foi! yes.” 

“Tet us charge,” said Schomberg. 

“One moment,” said D’Epernon ; ‘do not let us kill good 
bourgeois, or poor women. Hold ! they stop.” 

In fact, they had stopped, and looked as if undecided. 

“Oh, can they have seen us ?” 

“We can hardly see ourselves !” 

“See, they turn to the left; they stop before a house they 
are seeking—they are trying to enter; they will escape us !” 

“But it is not him, for he was going to the Faubourg St. 
Antoine.” , 

“Oh! how do you know he told you right ?” 

At this supposition they all rushed out, sword in hand, 
towards the gentlemen. 

One of the men had just introduced a key into the lock ; the 
door had yielded and was about to open, when the noise of 
their assailants made them turn. 

“What is this? Can it be against us, Aurilly ?” said one. 

“ Ah, monseigncur,” said the other, who had opened the 
door, “it looks like it. Will you name yourself, or keep 
incognito 2” 

“ Armed men—an ambush 

“Some jealous lover; I said the lady was too beautiful not 
to be watched.” 

“ Let us enter quickly, Aurilly ; we are safer within doors.” 

“Ves, monseigneur, if there are not enemies within; but 
how do you know 

He had not time to finish. ‘The young men rushed up; 


1? 





14 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


Quelus and Maugiron made for the door to prevent their enter. 
ing, while Schomberg, D’O, and D’Epernon prepared to attack 
in front. But he who had been called monseigneur turned 
towards Quelus, who was in front, and crossing his arms proudly, 
said : 

“ You attack a son of France, M. Quelus !” 

Quelus drew back, trembling, and thunderstruck. ‘‘ Mon- 
seigneur le Duc d’Anjou !” he cried. 

“The Duc d’Anjou !” repeated the others. 

‘‘ Well, gentlemen,” cried the duke. 

“ Monseigneur,” stammered D’Epernon, “ it was a joke; for- 
give us.” 

“ Monseigneur,” said D’O, “we did not dream of meeting 
your highness here !” 

“A joke!’ said the duke; “you have an odd manner of 
joking, M. d’Epernon. Since it was not intended for me, whom 
did your jest menace ?” 

““Monseigneur,” said Schomberg ; “we saw St. Luc quit the 
Hétel Montmorency and come this way; it seemed strange to 
us, and we wished to see what took him out on his wedding 

ight.” 

“M. de St. Luc—you took me for him ?” 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

“ M. de St. Luc is a head taller than I am.” 

“Tt is true, monseigneur; but he is just the height of M. 
Aurilly.” 

“ And seeing a man put a key in a lock, we took him for the 
principal,” added D’O. i 

“ Monseigneur cannot suppose that we had the shadow of an 
ill-will towards him, even to disturb his pleasures ?” 

As he listened, the duke, by a skilful movement, had, little 
by little, quitted the door, followed by Aurilly, and was now at 
some distance off. 


“My pleasures !” said he, angrily ; “what makes you think I 
was seeking pleasure ?” 


““Ah, monseigneur, in any case pardon us, and let us retire,” 
said Quelus. . 

“Tt is well; adieu, gentlemen ; but first listen. I was going 
to consult the Jew Manasses, who reads the future ; he lives, 
as you know, in Rue de la Tournelle. In passing, Aurilly saw 
you, and took you for the watch, and we, therefore, tried to 
hide ourselves in a doorwav. And now you know what to 


FAILS TO ENTER THE -HOUSE. 15 


believe and say ; it is needless to add, that I do not wish to be 
followed,” and he turned away. 

“ Monseigneur,” said Aurilly, “I am sure these men have 
bad intentions ; it is near midnight, and this is a lonely quarter; 
let us return home, I beg.” 

“No, no; let us profit by their departure.” 

“Your highness is deceived ; they have not gone, but have 
returned to their retreat: look in the angle of the Hotel 
des Tournelles.” 

Francois looked, and saw that Aurilly was right; it was 
evident that they waited for something, perhaps to see if the 
duke were really going to the Jew. 

“ Well, monseigneur,” continued Aurilly, “do you not think 
it will be more prudent to go home ?” 

“* Mordieu ! yet it is annoying to give up.” 

“Yes; but it can be put off. I told your highness that the 
house is taken for a year ; we know the lady lodges on the first 
story. We have gained her maid, and have a key which opens 
the door: you may wait safely.” 

“You are sure that the door yielded 2” 

“Yes, at the third key I tried.” 

** Are you sure you shut it again ?” 

“ Yes, monseigneur.” 

Aurilly did not feel sure, as he said, but he did not choose to 
admit it. 

“Well, I will go; I shall return some other time.” And the 
duke went away, promising to pay off the gentlemen for their 
interruption. 

They had hardly disappeared, when the five companions saw 
approach a cavalier wrapped in a large cloak. ‘The steps of his 
horse resounded on the frozen ground, and they went slowly 
and with precaution, for it was slippery. 

“This time,” said Quelus, “it is he.” 

“ Impossible,” said Maugiron. 

“ Why 2” 

“Because he is alone, and we left him with Livarot, 
Antragues, and Ribeirac, who would not have let him run 
such a risk.” 

“Tt is he, however; do you not recognise his insolent way 
of carrying his head ?” 

Seinen, said )’O, “it is a’snare.” 

*‘In any case, it is he ; and so. to arms 


19? 


16 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


It was, indeed, Bussy, who came carelessly down the Rue 
St. Antoine, and followed the route given him by Quelus ; he 
had, as we have seen, received the warning of St. Luc, and, in 
spite of it, had parted from his friends at the Hotel Mont- 
morency. It was one of those bravadoes delighted in by the 
valiant colonel, who said of himself, “I am but a simple gen- 
tleman, but I bear in my breast the heart of an emperor; and 
when I read in Plutarch the exploits of the ancient Romans, I 
think there is not one that I could not imitate.” And _ besides, 
he thought that St. Luc, who was not ordinarily one of his 
friends, merely wished to get him laughed at for his precautions ; 
and Bussy feared ridicule more than danger. 

He had, even in the eyes of his enemies, earned a reputation 
for courage, which could only be sustained by the rashest adven- 
tures. Therefore, alone, and armed only with a sword and 
poniard, he advanced towards the house where waited for him 
no person, but simply a letter, which the Queen of Navarre 
sent him every month on the same day, and which he, accord- 
ing to his promise to the beautiful Marguerite, went to fetch 
himself, alone, and at night. 

When he arrived at the Rue St. Catherine, his active eye 
discerned in the shade the forms of his adversaries. He counted 
them: ‘Three, four, five,” said he, ‘‘ without counting the 
lackeys, who are doubtless within call. They think much of 
me, it seems ; all these for one man. That brave St. Lue did 
not deceive me; and were his even the first sword to pierce 
me, I would cry, ‘ Thanks for your warning, friend.’” So say- 
ing, he continued to advance, only his arm held his sword under 
his cloak, of which he had unfastened the clasp. 

It was then that Quelus cried, ‘ To arms.” 

“Ah, gentlemen,” said Bussy, “it appears you wish to kill 
me : I am the wild boar you had to hunt. Well, gentlemen, 
the wild boar will rip up a few of you; I swear it to you, and I 
never break my word.” 

““ Possibly,” said Schomberg ; “‘ but it is not right, M. Bussy 
d’Amboise, that you should be on horseback and we on foot.” 
And as he spoke, the arm of the young man, covered with 
white satin, which glistened in the moonlight, came from under 
his cloak, and Bussy felt his horse give way under him. 
Schomberg had, with an address peculiar to himself, pierced 
the horse’s leg with a kind of cutlass, of which the blade was 
heavier than the handle. and which had remained in the wound. 


FAILS TO ENTER THE HOUSE. 17 


The animal gave a shrill cry, and fell on his knees. Bussy, 
always ready, jumped at once to the ground, sword in hand. 

“ Ah !” cried he, “my favourite horse, you shall pay for this.” 
And as Schomberg approached incautiously, Bussy gave him a 
blow which broke his thigh. Schomberg uttered a cry. 

“Well !” said Bussy, “have I kept my word ? one already. 
It was the wrist of Bussy, and not his horse’s leg, you should 
have cut.” 

In an instant, while Schomberg bound up his thigh with his 
handkerchief, Bussy presented the point of his long sword to 
his four other assailants, disdaining to cry for help, but retreat- 
ing gradually, not to fly, but to gain a wall, against which to 
support himself, and prevent his being attacked behind, making 
all the while constant thrusts, and feeling sometimes that soft 
resistance of the flesh which showed that his blows had taken 
effect. Once he slipped for an instant. That instant sufficed 
for Quelus to give him a wound in the side. 

“ Touched,” cried Quelus. 

“Ves, in the doublet,” said Bussy, who would not even 
acknowledge his hurt. And rushing on Quelus, with a vigorous 
effort, he made his sword fly from his hand. But he could not 
pursue his advantage, for D’O, D’Epernon, and Maugironattacked 
him with fresh fury. Schomberg had bound his wound, and 
Quelus picked up his sword. Bussy made a bound backwards, 
and reached the wall. There he stopped, strong as Achilles, 
and smiling at the tempest of blows which rained around him. 
All at once he felt acloud pass overhis eyes. He had forgotten 
his wound, but these symptoms of fainting recalled it to him. 

«Ah, you falter !” cried Quelus. 

“Judge of it!” cried Bussy. And with the hilt of his sword 
he struck him on the temple. Quelus fell under the blow. 
Then furious—wild, he rushed forward, uttering a terrible cry. 
D’O and D’Epernon drew back, Maugiron was raising Quelus, 
when Bussy broke his sword with his foot, and wounded the 
right arm of D’Epernon. For a moment he was conqueror, but 
Quelus recovered himself, and four swords flashed again. Bussy 
felt himself lost. He gathered all his strength to retreat once 
more step by step. Already the perspiration was cold on his 
brow, and the ringing in his ears and the cloud over his eyes 
warned him that his strength was giving way. He sought for 
the wall with his left hand; to his astonishment, it yielded. It 


was a door not quite closed. Then he regained hope and 
2 


18 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


strength for a last effort. For a second his blows were rapid 
and violent. ‘Then he let himself glide inside the door, and 
pushed it to with a violent blow. It shut, and Bussy was saved. 
He heard the furious blows of his enemies on the door, their 
cries of rage, and wrathful imprecations. Then, the ground 
seemed to fail under his feet, and the walls to move. He made 
a few steps forward, and fell on the steps of a staircase. He 
knew no more, but seemed to descend into the silence and 
obscurity of the tomb. 


CHAPEER@IVE 


HOW IT IS SOMETIMES DIFFICULT TO DISTINGUISH A DREAM 
FROM THE REALITY, 


Bussy had had time, before falling, to pass his handkerchief 
under his shirt, and to buckle the belt of his sword over it, so 
as to make a kind of bandage to the open wound whence the 
blood flowed, but he had already lost blood enough to make 
him faint. However, during his fainting fit, this is what Bussy 
saw, or thought he saw. He found himself in a room with 
furniture of carved wood, with a tapestry of figures, and a painted 
ceiling. These figures, in all possible attitudes, holding flowers, 
carrying arms, seemed to him to be stepping from the walls. 
Between the two windows a portrait of a lady was hung. He, 
fixed to his bed, lay regarding all this. All at once the lady of 
the portrait seemed to move, and an adorable creature, clothed 
in a long white robe, with fair hair falling over her shoulders, 
and with eyes black as jet, with long lashes, and with a skin 
under which he seemed to see the blood circulate, advanced 
towards the bed. ‘This woman was so beautiful, that Bussy 
made a violent effort to rise and throw himself at her feet. But 
he seemed to be confined there by bonds like those which keep 
the dead body in the tomb, while the soul mounts to the skies. 
This forced him to look at the bed on which he was lying, and 
it seemed to him one of those magnificent beds sculptured in 
the reign of Francis I., to which were suspended hangings of 
white damask, embroidered in gold. 

At the sight of this woman, the people of the wall and ceiling 


A DREAM, OR A REALITY? 19 


ceased to occupy his attention ; she was all to him, and he 
looked to see if she had left a vacancy in the frame. But sud- 
denly she disappeared ; an opaque body interposed itself be- 
tween her and Bussy, moving slowly, and stretching its arms 
out as though it were playing blind man’s buff. Bussy felt in 
such a passion at this, that, had he been able, he would certainly 
have attacked this importunate vision ; but as he made a vain 
effort, the new-comer spoke: 

“Well,” said he, ‘“‘ have I arrived at last ?” 

“‘ Yes, monsieur,” said a voice, so sweet that it thrilled through 
Bussy, ‘“‘ and now you may take off your bandage.” 

Bussy made an effort to see if the sweet voice belonged to the 
lady of the portrait, but it was useless. He only saw the pleasant 
face of a young man, who had just, as he was told, taken off his 
bandage, and was looking curiously about him. 

“To the devil with this man,” thought Bussy, and he tried to 
speak, but fruitlessly. 

«“ Ah, I understand now,” said the young man, approaching 
the bed; “ you are wounded, are you not, my dear sir? Well, 
we will try to cure you.” 

“Ts the wound mortal ?” asked the sweet voice again, with a 
sad accent, which brought tears into the eyes of Bussy. 

“T do not know yet, I am going to see; meanwhile, he has 
fainted.” 

This was all Bussy heard, he seemed to feel a red-hot iron in 
his side, and then lost all consciousness. Afterwards, it was 
impossible for Bussy to fix the duration of this insensibility. 

When he woke, a cold wind blew over his face, and harsh 
voices sounded in his ears ; he opened his eyes to see if it were 
the people of the tapestry speaking, and hoping to see the lady 
again, looked round him. But there was neither tapestry nor 
ceiling visible, and the portrait had also disappeared. He saw 
at his right only a man with a white apron spotted with blood ; 
at his left, a monk, who was raising his head ; and before him, 
an old woman mumbling her prayers. His wondering eyes 
next rested on a mass of stone before him, in which he recog- 
nised the Temple, and above that, the cold white sky, slightly 
tinted by the rising sun. He was in the street. 

*‘ Ah, thank you, good people,” said he, “ for the trouble you 
have taken in bringing me here. I wanted air, but you might 
have given it to me by opening the window, and I should have 
been better on my bed of white damask and gold than on the 

2—2 


20 GHGODPS LiL /L7SIeaKe 


bare ground. But never mind, there is in my pocket, unless 
you have paid yourselves, which would have been prudent, 
some twenty golden crowns ; take, my friends, take.” 

“ But, my good gentleman,” said the butcher, “we did not 
bring you here, but found you here as we passed.” 

“Ah, diable ! and the young doctor, was he here ?” 

The bystanders looked at each other. 

“Tt is the remains of delirium,” said the monk. ‘Then, turn- 
ing to Bussy, “I think you would do well to confess,” said he, 
‘there was no doctor, poor young man ; you were here alone, 
and as cold as death.” 

Bussy then remembered having received a sword stroke, 
glided his hand under his doublet, and felt his handkerchief in 
the same place, fixed over his wound by his sword-belt. 

“ Tt is singular,” said he. 

Already profiting by his permission, the lookers-on were 
dividing his purse. 

“Now, my friends,” said he, “ will you take me to my hotel?” 

“ Ah, certainly,” said the old woman, “ poor dear young man, 
the butcher is strong, and then he has his horse, on which you 
can ride.” 

“Yes, my gentleman, my horse and I are at your service.” 

‘“‘ Nevertheless, my son,” said the monk, “I think you would 
do well to confess.” 

“What are you called?” asked Bussy. 

“‘ Brother Gorenflot.” 

“ Well, Brother Gorenflot, I trust my hour has not yet arrived, 
and, as I am cold, I wish to get quickly home and warm my- 
self.” 

‘What is your hotel called >” 

“Hotel de Bussy.” 

‘“‘ How ! cried all, ‘you belong to M. de Bussy 2” 

“Tam M. de Bussy himself.” 

“* Bussy,” cried the butcher, “the brave Bussy, the scourge 
of the minions” And raising him, he was quickly carried 
home, whilst the monk went away, murmuring, “If it was that 
Bussy, I do not wonder he would not confess !” 

When he got home, Bussy sent for his usual doctor, who 
found the wound not dangerous. 

: ae ae sau ¢ fe it not been already dressed 2” 

ied pat the doctor, “TI am not sure” 

nd was it serious enough to make me delirious » 


A DREAM, OR A REALITY ? 21 


“ Certainly.” 
“Ah!” thought Bussy, “was that tapestry, that frescoed 


ceiling, that bed, the portrait between the windows, the beau- 
tiful blonde woman with black eyes, the doctor blindfolded, 
was this all delirium? Is nothing true but my combat ? Where 
did I fight? Ah, yes, I remember; near the Bastille, by the 
Rue St. Paul. I leaned against a door, and it opened ; I shut 
it—and then I remember no more. Have I dreamed or not ? 
And my horse! My horse must have been found dead on the 
place. Doctor, pray call some one.” 

The doctor called a valet. Bussy inquired, and heard that 
the animal, bleeding and mutilated, had dragged itself to the 
door of the hétel, and had been found there. 

“Tt must have been a dream,” thought he again: “how 
should a portrait come down from the wall and talk to a doctor 
with a bandage on his eyes? I ama fool; and yet when I re- 
member, she was so charming,” and he began to describe her 
beauties, till he cried out, “ It is impossible it should have been 
a dream; and yet I found myself in the street, and a monk 
kneeling by me. Doctor,” said he, “shall I have to keep the 
house a fortnight again for this scratch, as I did for the last ?” 

““We shall see ; can you walk ?” 

“T seem to have quicksilver in my legs.” 

a biy.” 

Bussy jumped out of bed, and walked quickly round his room. 

“That will do,” said the doctor, “ provided that you do not 
go on horseback, or walk ten miles the first day.” 

“Capital ! you are a doctor; however, I have seen another 
to-night. Yes, I saw him, and if ever I meet him, I should 
know him.” 

“‘T advise you not to seek for him, monsieur ; one has always 
a little fever after a sword wound ; you should know that, who 
have had a dozen.” 

“Ah, mon Dieu!” cried Bussy, struck with a newidea, “ did 
my dream begin outside the door instead of inside ? Was there 
no more a staircase and a passage, than there was a bed with 
white and gold damask, and a portrait? Perhaps those 
wretches, thinking me dead, carried me to the Temple, to 
divert suspicion, should any one have seen them hiding. Cer- 
tainly, it must be so, and I have dreamed the rest. Mon 
Dieu ! if they have procured for me this dream which torments 
me so, I swear to make an end of them all.” 


tN 
te 


CHI COL, TLE a /LaSia aie 


“ My dear seigneur,” said the doctor, “if you wish to get 
well, you must not agitate yourself thus.” 

“ Except St. Luc,” continued Bussy, without attending ; “he 
acted as a friend, and my first visit shall be to him.” 

“‘ Not before five this evening.” 

“Tf you wish it; but, I assure you, it is not going out and 
seeing people which will make me ill, but staying quietly at 
home.” 

“Well, it is possible; you are always a singular patient ; act 
as you please, only I recommend you not to get another wound 
betore this one is healed.” 

Bussy promised to do his best to avoid it, and, after dressing, 
called for his litter to take him to the Hotel Montmorency. 


CHAPTER# ive 
HOW MADAME DE ST. LUC HAD PASSED THE NIGHT. 


Louis DE CLERMONT, commonly called Bussy d’ Amboise, was 
a perfect gentleman, and a very handsome man. Kings and 
princes had sought for his friendship ; queens and princesses 
had lavished on him their sweetest smiles. He had succeeded 
La Mole in the affections of Queen Marguerite, who had com- 
mitted for him so many follies, that even her husband, insensible 
so long, was moved at them; and the Duke Francois would 
never have pardoned him, had it not gained over,Bussy to his 
interests, and once again he sacrificed all to his ambition. But 
in the midst of all his successes of war, ambition, and intrigue, 
he had remained insensible ; and he who had never known fear, 
tad never either known love. 

When the servants of M. de St. Luc saw Bussy enter, they 
ran to tell M. de Brissac. 

“Ts M. de St. Luc at home ?” asked Bussy. 

“No, monsieur.” 

“Where shall I find him >” 

“T do not know, monsieur. We are all very anxious about 
him, for he has not returned since yesterday.” 

“* Nonsense.” 

“Tt is true, Monsieur.” 

“But Madame de St. Luc ?” 


MADAME DE ST. LUCS FIRST NIGHT. 23 


*¢ Oh, she is here.” 

“ Tell her I shail be charmed if she will allow me to pay my 
respects to her.” 

Five minutes after, the messenger returned, saying Madame 
de St. Luc would be glad to see M. de Bussy. 

When Bussy entered the room, Jeanne ran to meet him. She 
was very pale, and her jet black hair made her look more so; 
her eyes were red from her sleepless night, and there were 
traces of tears on her cheeks. 

“You are welcome, M. de Bussy,” said she, “in spite of the 
fears your presence awakens.” 

“ What do you mean, madame ? how can I cause you fear ?” 

“Ah! there was a meeting last night between you and M. de 
St. Luc ? confess it.” 

“ Between me and St. Luc!” 

“Yes, he sent me away to speak to you; you belong to the 
Duc d’Anjou, he to the king. You have quarrelled—do not 
hide it from me. You must understand my anxiety. He went 
with the king, it is true—but afterwards ?” 

“‘ Madame, this is marvellous. I expected you to ask after my 
wound——” 

“He wounded you ; he did fight, then ?” 

“No, madame ; not with me at least; it was not he who 
wounded me. Indeed, he did all he could to save me. Did 
he not tell you so?” 

“How could he tell me? I have not seen him.” 

“You have not seen him? ‘Then your porter spoke the 
truth.” 

“‘T have not seen him since eleven last night.” 

“But where can he be ?” 

“T should rather ask you.” 

‘Oh, pardieu, tell me about it, it is very droll.” 

The poor woman looked at him with astonishment. 

“No, it is very sad, I mean. I have lost much blood, and 
scarcely know what I am saying. ‘lell me this lamentable story, 
madame.” 

Jeanne told all she knew ; how the king had carried hitn off, 
the shutting of the doors of the Louvre, and the message of the 
guards. 

“ Ah! very well, I understand,” said Bussy. 

“ How ! you understand.” 


24 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Ves ; his majesty took him to the Louvre and once there 


he could not come out again.” 

“¢ And why not ?” 

‘Ah! that is a state secret.” 

‘But my father went to the Louvre, and I also, and the 
guards said they did not know what we meant.” 

“All the more reason that he should be there.” 

“You think so ?” 

‘“‘T am sure of it, and if you wish to be so also——” 

ESELOW 2” 

“ By seeing.” 

aL? 

“(Certainly 

“ But if I go there, they will send me away, as they did before.” 

“Would you like to go in?” 

“But if he is not there 2” 

“T tell you he is there. Come; but they will not let in the 
wife of St. Luc.” 

“You laugh at me, and it is very cruel in my distress. ’ 

“No, dear lady, listen. You are young, you are tall, and 
have black eyes; you are like my youngest page, who looked 
so well in the cloth of gold yesterday.” 

“‘Ah! what folly, M. Bussy,” cried Jeanne, blushing. 
re eal have no other method but this. If you wish to see St. 

uc—— 

“Oh! I would give all the world to see him.” 

“Well, I promise that you shall without giving anything.’ 

“Oh, but——” 

“T told you how.” 

“Well, I will do it ; shall I send for the dress ?” 

“No, I will send you a new one I have at home; then you 
must Join me this evening at the Rue St. Honoré, and we will 
go together to the Louvre.” Jeanne began to laugh, and gave 
her hand to Bussy. 

“Pardon my suspicions,” said she. 

“* Willingly,” and taking leave, he went home to prepare. 

Bussy and Madame de St. Luc met at the appointed time ; 
Jeanne looked beautiful in her disguise. At the end of the 
Rue St. Germain-l’Auxerrois, they met a large party, in which 
Bussy recognised the Duc d’Anjou and his train. 

“Ah,” said he, “we will make a triumphal entry into the 
Louvre.” 


‘ 


MADAME DE ST. LUCS FIRST NIGHT. 25 


“Eh! monseigneur,” cried he to the duke. 

The prince turned. ‘‘ You, Bussy !” cried he, joyfully, “TI 
heard you were badly wounded, and I was going to your hotel.” 

“Ma foi, monseigneur, if I am not dead, it is thanks to no 
one but myself. You get me into nice situations ; that ball at 
St. Luc’s was a regular snare, and they have nearly drained all 
the blood out of my body.” 

“They shall pay for it, Bussy; they shall pay dearly.” 

“Yes, you say so,” said Bussy, with his usual liberty, “and 
you will smile on the first you meet.” 

“Well! accompany me to the Louvre, and you shall see.” 

“What shall I see, monseigneur ?” 

“‘ How I will speak to my brother.” 

“You promise me reparation ?” 

“I promise you shall be content. You hesitate still. I 
believe.” 

“¢ Monseigneur, I know you so well.” 

“Come, I tell you.” 

“This is good for you,” whispered Bussy to Jeanne. “ There 
will be a quarrel between the brothers, and meanwhile you can 
find St. Luc.” 

“Well,” said he to the prince, “I follow you; if I am in- 
sulted, at least I can always revenge myself.” 

And he took his place near the duke, while his page kept 
close to him. 

“Revenge yourself ; no, Bussy,” said the prince, ‘I charge 
myself with it. I know your assassins,” added he, in a low tone. 
“What! your highness has taken the trouble to inquire >?” 

“T saw them.” 

“ How so ?” cried Bussy, astonished. 

“Oh! I had business myself at the Porte St. Antoine. They 
barely missed killing me in your place. Ah! I did not know 
it was you they were waiting for, or else——” 

“ Well?” 

“Had you this new page with you?” asked the prince, 
without finishing his sentence. 

“No, I was alone, and you ?” 

“TJ had Aurilly with me ; and why were you alone ?” 

“Because I wish to preserve my name of the brave Bussy. 

“ And they wounded you ?” 

“‘T do not wish to give them the pleasure of knowing it. but 
I had a severe wound in the side.” 


26 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


« Ah! the wretches ; Aurilly said he was sure they were bent 
on mischief.” 

“ How! you saw the ambush, you were with Aurilly, who 
uses his sword as well as his lute, you thought they had bad 
intentions, and you did not watch to give aid?” 

“J did not know who they were waiting for.” 

«“ Mort diable! when you saw the king’s friends, you might 
have known it was against some friends of yours. Now, as there 
is hardly any one but myself who has courage to be your friend, 
you might have guessed that it was I.” 

“Oh! perhaps you are right, my dear Bussy, but I did not 
think of all that.” 

When they entered, “ Remember your promise,” said Bussy, 
“JT have some one to speak to.” 

“You leave me, Bussy ?” 

“Yes, I must, but if I hear a great noise I will come to you, 
so speak loud.” 

Then Bussy, followed by Jeanne, took a secret staircase, 
traversed two or three corridors, and arrived at an ante- 
chamber. 

‘Wait here for me,” said he to Jeanne. 

“Ah, mon Dieu! you leave me alone.” 

‘“‘T must, to provide for your entrance.” 


CHAPTER: 
é 
HOW MADAME DE ST. LUC PASSED THE SECOND NIGHT OF HER 
MARRIAGE. 


Bussy went straight to the sleeping-room of the king. ‘There 
were in it two beds of velvet and satin, pictures, relics, per- 
fumed sachets from the East, and a collection of beautiful 
swords. Bussy knew the king was not there, as his brother 
had asked to see him, but he knew that there was next to it a 
little room which was occupied in turn by all the king’s 
favourites, and which he now expected to find occupied by St. 
Luc, whom the king in his great affection had carried off from 
his wife. Bussy knocked at the antechamber common to the 
two rooms. ‘The captain of the guards opened. 


MADAME DE ST. LUC'S SECOND NIGHT. pai 


“M. de Bussy !” cried he. 

“Ves, myself, dear M. de Nancey ; the king wishes to speak 
to M. de St. Luc.” 

“Very well, tell M. de St. Luc the king wants him.” 

“What is he doing ?” 

“He is with Chicot, waiting for the king’s return from his 
brother.” 

“Will you permit my page to wait here ?” 

‘“‘Willingly, monsieur.” 

“Enter, Jean,” said Bussy, and he pointed to the embrasure 
of a window, where she went to hide herself. St. Luc entered, 
and M. de Nancey retired. 

“What does the king want now?” cried St. Luc, angrily ; 
“ah! it is you, M. de Bussy.” 

“T, and before everything, let me thank you for the service 
you rendered me.” 

“ Ah! itwas quite natural; I could not bear to see a brave 
gentleman assassinated : I thought you killed.” 

“Tt did not want much to do it, but I got off with a wound, 
which I think I repaid with interest to Schomberg and D’Eper- 
non. As for Quelus, he may thank the bones of his head : they 
are the hardest I ever knew.” 

“ Ah! tell me about it, it will amuse me a little.” 

“T have no time now, I come for something else. You are 
ennuyé——” 

* Tovdeath.” 

*‘ And a prisoner ?” 

“‘Completely. The king pretends no one can amuse him but 
me. He is very good, for since yesterday I have made more 
grimaces than his ape, and been more rude than his jester.” 

‘Well, it is my turn to render you a service: can I do it ?” 

“Ves, go to the Marshal de Brissac’s, and reassure my poor 
little wife, who must be very uneasy, and must think my con- 
duct very strange.” 

“ What shall I say to her ?” 

“‘Morbleu ! tell her what you see; that I am a prisoner, and 
that the king talks to me of friendship like Cicero, who wrote 
on it; and of virtue like Socrates, who practised it. It is in 
vain I tell him I am ungrateful for the first, and incredulous as 
to the last : he only repeats it over again.” 

“Ts that all I can do for you >” 

“ Ah, mon Dieu! I fear so.” 


28 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Then it is done.” 

“‘ How so?” 

“T guessed all this, and told your wife so.” 

«¢ And what did she say ?” 

“ At first she would not believe ; but I trust now,” continued 
he, glancing towards the window, “she will yield to evidence. 
Ask me something more difficult.” 

“Then, bring here the griffin of Signor Astolfo, and let me 
nount en croupe, and go to my wife.” 

“ A more simple thing would be to take the griffin to your 
wife and bring her here.” 

ptteren!: 

“Ves, here.” 

“To the Louvre, that would be droll.” 

“JT should think so. Then you would be ennuyé no longer ?” 

“Ma foi! no; but if this goes on much longer, I believe I 
shall kill myself.” 

“Well! shall I give you my page?” 

“Dormer? 

“Ves, he is a wonderful lad.” 

“ Thank you, but I detest pages.” 

“ Bah! try him.” 

“‘ Bussy, you mock me.” 

“‘Let me leave him.” 

“cc No.” 

“T tell you, you will like him.” 

“No, no, a hundred times, no.” 

“ Hola, page, come here.” ‘ 

Jeanne came forward, blushing. 

“Oh !” cried St. Luc, recognising her, in astonishment 

“Well! shall I send him away ?” 

“No, no. Ah, Bussy, I owe you an eternal friendship.” 

7 Take care, you cannot be heard, but you can be seen.” 

“Tt is true,” said St. Luc, retreating from his wife. 

Indeed, M. de Nencey was beginning to wonder what was 
going on, when a great noise was heard from the gallery. 

‘““Ah! mon Dieu !” cried M. de Nancey, ‘there is the king 
quarrelling with some one.” 

“TI really think so,” replied Bussy, affecting inquietude ; 
can it be with the Duc d’Anjou, who came with me ?” 


The captain of the guard went off in the direction of the 
gallery. 


MADAME DE ST. LUCS SECOND NIGHT. 29 


« Have I not managed well ?” said Bussy to St. Luc. 

«What is it?” 

“M. d’Anjou and the king are quarrelling ; I must go to 
them. You profit by the time to place in safety the page I 
have brought you ; is it possible ?” 

“Oh, yes; luckily I declared I was ill and must keep my 
room.” 

“In that case, adieu, madame, and remember me in your 
prayers.” And Bussy went off to the gallery, where the king, 
red with fury, swore to the duke, who was pale with anger, that 
in the scene of the preceding night Bussy was the aggressor. 

“] affirm to you, sire,” cried the duke, “ that 1)’ Epernon, 
Schomberg and Quelus were waiting for him at the Hotel des 
‘Tournelles.” 

“Who told you so ?” 

“‘T saw them with my own eyes.” 

“In that darkness! The night was pitch dark.” 

“ T knew their voices.” 

“They spoke to you ?”’ 

“They did more, they took me for Bussy, and attacked 
me.” 

ou! 

toes, |.” 

“ And what were you doing there ?” 

“ What does that matter to you ?” 

“J wish to know ; I am curious to-day.” 

“Twas going to Manasses.” 

“A Jew?” 

“ You go to Ruggieri, a poisoner.” 

“I go where I like: I am the king. Besides, as I said, Bussy 
was the aggressor.” 

SW vikere:?” 

« At St. Luc’s ball.” 

“ Bussy provoked five men? No, no, he is brave, but he is 
not mad.” 

“Par la mordieu! JI tell you I heard him. Besides, he has 
wounded Schomberg 1n the thigh, D’Epernon in the arm, and 
half killed Quelus.” 

“ Ah! really I did not know ; I compliment him on it 

“JT will make an example of this brawler.” 

« And I, whom your friends attack, in his person and in my 
own, will know if I am your brother, and if——” 


30 CHICOT, THE fES@DR, 


At this moment Bussy, dressed in pale-green satin, entered 
the room. 

“ Sire !” said he, “ receive my humble respects.” 

“ Pardieu ! here he is,” cried Henri. 

“Your majesty, it seems, was doing me the honour of speak- 
ing of me.” 

‘Ves, and I am glad to see that, in spite of what they told 
me, your look shows good health.” 

“Sire, blood drawn improves tne complexion, so mine ought 
to be good this morning.” 

“ Well, since they have wounded you, complain, and I will 
do you justice.” 

“T complain of nothing, sire.” 

Henri looked astonished. ‘What did you say?” said he to 
the duke. . 

“T said that Bussy had received a wound in his side.” 

“Ts it true, Bussy ?” 

“The first prince of the blood would not lie, sire.” 

“ And yet you do not complain ?” 

“JT shall never complain, sire, until they cut off my rght- 
hand, and prevent my revenging myself, and then I will try to 
do it with the left.” 

“ Tnsolent,” murmured Henri. 

“Sire,” said the duke, “do justice ; we ask no better. Order 
an inquiry, name judges, and let it be proved who prepared the 
ambush and the intended murder.” 

Henri reddened. “No,” said he, ‘“‘I prefer this time to be 
ignorant where the wrong lies, and to pardon every oney I wish 
these enemies to make peace, and I am sorry that Schomberg 
and D’Epernon are kept at home by their wounds. Say, M. 
d’Anjou, which do you call the most forward to fight of all my 
friends, as you say you saw them ?” 

*« Sire, it was Quelus.” 

“Ma foi! yes,” said Quelus, ‘“ his highness is right.” 

“Then,” said Henri, “let MM. Bussy and Quelus make 
peace in the name of all.” 

“Oh! oh!” said Quelus, “ what does that mean, sire 2” 

“It means that you are to embrace here, before me.” 

Quelus frowned. 

“ Ah, signor,” cried Bussy, imitating a pantaloon, “will you 
not do me this favour ?” 


Even the king laughed. Then, approaching Quelus, Bussy 


BE PETIT COUCHER OF HENRI IL. 31 


threw his arms round his neck, saying, ‘‘The king wishes 
ae 

“T hope it engages us to nothing,” whispered Quelus. 

“Be easy,” answered Bussy, ‘we will meet soon.” 

Quelus drew back in a rage, and Bussy, making a pirouette, 
went out of the gallery 


+b) 


CHAPTER VI. 
LE PETIT COUCHER OF HENRI III. 


Arrer this scene, beginning in tragedy and ending in comedy, 
ihe king, still angry, went to his room, followed by Chicot, who 
asked for his supper. 

“‘T am not hungry,” said the king. 

“Tt is possible, but I am.” 

The king did not seem to hear. He unciasped his cloak, 
took off his cap, and, advancing to the passage which led to 
St. Luc’s room, said to Chicot, “Wait here for me till I re- 
turn.” 

“Oh! do not be ina hurry,” said Chicot. No sooner was 
the king gone, than Chicot opened the door and called “ Hola!” 

A valet came. “The king has changed his mind,” said 
Chicot, “ he wishes a good supper here for himself and St. Luc, 
above all, plenty of wine, and despatch.” 

The valet went to execute the orders, which he believed to 
be the king’s. Henri meanwhile had passed into St. Luc’s 
toom. He found him in bed, having prayers read to him by an 
old servant who had followed him to the Louvre, and shared 
his captivity. In a corner, on an arm-chair, his head buried in 
his hands, slept the page. 

“Who is that young man ?” asked the king. 

“ Did not your majesty authorise me to send for a page.” 

*“ Ves, doubtless.” 

“‘Well, I have profited by it. 

“e Oh (2 

“ Does your majesty repent of having allowed me this little 
indulgence ?” 

‘No, no, on the contrary, amuse yourself, my son. Howare 
you 2” 


22 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


‘Sire, I have a fever.” 

“Really, your face is red; let me feel your pulse, I am half 
a doctor.” 

St. Luc held out his hand with visible ill-humour. 

“Oh!” said the king, “ intermittent—agitated.” 

‘© Ves, sire, I am very ill.” 

“ J will send you my doctor.” 

“Thank you, sire, but I hate Miron.” 

“TJ will watch you myself. Vou shall have a bed in my room, 
and we will talk all night.” 

“Oh !” cried St. Luc, “ you see me ill, and you want to keep 
me from sleeping. That is a singular way to treat your patient, 
doctor.” 

“ But you cannot be left alone, suffering as you are.” 

“Sire, I have my page, Jean.” 

Bat he sleeps. - 

“That is what I like best, then he will not disturb me.” 

‘Well, come and assist at my going to bed.” 

“Then I shall be free to come back to bed ?” 

“SPertectly:”” 

“Well, so be it. But I shall make a bad courtier, I assure 
you; I am dying with sleep.” 

‘You shall yawn at your ease.” 

“Sire, if your majesty will leave me, I will be with you in 
five minutes.” 

“Well, then, five minutes, but no longer.” 

As soon as the door was shut, the page jumped up. “ Ah! 
St. Luc,” cried she, “ you are going to leave me again. Mon 
Dieu! I shall die of fright here, if they discover me.” 

‘““My dear Jeanne, Gaspard here will protect you.” 

“Had I not better go back ?” 

“If you really wish it, Jeanne,” said St. Luc, sadly, “ you 
shall. But if you are as good as you are beautiful, if you have 
any feeling in your heart for me, you will wait here a little. I 
shall suffer so much from my head and nerves, that the king 
will not long keep so sad a companion.” 

“ Go, then,” said Jeanne, “and I will wait.” 

“My dear Jeanne, you are adorable. Trust me to return as 
soon as possible. Besides, I have an idea, which I will tell you 
when I return.” 

“ An idea which will restore your liberty ?” 

“T hope so.” ’ 


LE PETIT CQUCHER OF HENRY 111. 33 


Then go.” 

“Gaspard,” said St. Luc, “prevent any one from entering 
here, and in a quarter of an hour lock the door, and bring me 
the key to the king’s room. Then go home, and tell them not 
to be uneasy about Madame la Comtesse, and come back to- 
morrow.” 

Then St. Luc kissed his wife’s hand, and went to the king, 
who was already growing impatient. Jeanne, alone and trem- 
bling, hid behind the curtains of the bed. When St. Luc 
entered, he found the king amidst a perfect carpet of flowers, of 
which the stalks had been cut off—roses, jasmine, violets, and 
wall-flowers, in spite of the severe weather, formed an odorous 
carpet for Henri III. ‘The chamber, of which the roof was 
painted, had in it two beds, one of which was so large as to 
occupy a third of the room. It was hung with gold and silk 
tapestry, representing mythological figures, and the windows 
had curtains to match. From the centre of the ceiling hung, 
suspended by a golden chain, a silver gilt lamp, in which burned 
a perfumed oil. At the side of the bed was a golden satyr, 
holding in his hand a candelabrum, containing four rose-colour 
wax candles, also perfumed. 

The king, with his naked feet resting on the flowers, was 
seated on a chair of ebony inlaid with gold; he had on his 
knees seven or eight young spaniels, who were licking his hands. 
Two servants were curling his hair, his moustachios, and beard, 
a third was covering his face with a kind of cream, which had 
a most delightful scent. 

“Here,” cried Chicot, “ the grease and the combs, I will try 
them too.” 

“‘Chicot,” said Henri, ‘ your skin is too dry, and will use too 
much cream, and your beard is so hard, it will break my combs. 
Well, my son,” said he, turning to St. Luc, “how is your 
head ?” 

St. Luc put his hand to his head and groaned. 

“Imagine !” continued Henri, “I have seen Bussy d’Am- 
boise.” 

“ Bussy !” cried St. Luc, trembling. 

“Yes, those fools! five of them attacked him, and let him 
escape. If you had been there, St. Luc——” 

“T should probably have been like the others.” 

“Oh ! no, I wager you are as good as Bussy. We will try 
to-morrow.” 

8 


34 CHICOL,: THE JLSREKR 

“ Sire, I am too ill for anything.” : 
Henri, hearing a singular noise, turned round, and saw Chicot 
eating up all the supper that had been brought for two. __ 

“What the devil are you doing, M. Chicot ?” cried Henri. 

“Taking my cream internally, since you will not allow me to 
do it outwardly.” ; : 

“Go and fetch my captain of the guards,” said Henri. 

“What for?” asked Chicot, emptying a porcelain cup of 
chocolate. 

“To pass his sword through your body.” _ ; 

“Ah! let him come, we shall see!’ cried Chicot, putting 
himself in such a comical attitude of defence that every one 
laughed. 

“ But Iam hungry,” cried the king; “and the wretch has 
eaten up all the supper.” 

“You are capricious, Henri; I offered you supper, and you 
refused. However, your bouillon is left ; I am no longer hungry, 
and I am going to bed.” 

“And I also,” said St. Luc, “‘ for I can stand no longer.” 

“Stay, St. Luc,” said the king, “take these,” and he offered 
him a handful of little dogs. 

*¢ What for P” 

“To sleep with you ; they will take your illness from you.” 

“Thanks, sire,” said St. Luc, putting them back in their 
basket, “‘ but I have no confidence in your receipt.” 

“JT will come and visit you in the night, St. Luc.” 

“Pray do not, sire, you will only disturb me,” and saluting 
the king, he went away. Chicot had already disappeared, and 
there only remained with the king the valets, who covered his 
face with a mask of fine cloth, plastered with the perfumed 
cream, in which were holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth; a cap 
of silk and silver fixed it on the forehead and ears. They next 
covered his arms with sleeves made of wadded silk, and then 
presented him with kid gloves, also greased inside. 

These mysteries of the royal toilet finished, they presented 
to him his soup in a golden cup. Then Henri said a prayer, a 
short one that night, and went to bed. 

When settled there, he ordered them to carry away the 
flowers, which were beginning to make the air sickly, and to 
‘open the window for a moment. ‘Then the valet closed the 
doors and curtains, and called in Narcissus, the king’s favourite 
dog, who, jumping on the bed, settled himself at once on the 


DEM REM GO CLIT OL, LLL CL LET. 35 


king’s feet. The valet next put out the wax lights, lowered the 
lamp, and went out softly. 

Already, more tranquil and nonchalant than the lazy monks 
of his kingdom in their fat abbeys, the King of France no 
longer remembered that there was a France.—He slept. 

Every noise was hushed, and one might have heard a bat fly 
in the sombre corridors of the Louvre. 


CHAPTER: VE: 


HOW, WITHOUT ANY ONE KNOWING WHY, THE KING WAS 
CONVERTED BEFORE THE NEXT DAY. 


THREE hours passed thus. 

Suddenly, a terrible cry was heard, which came from the 
king’s room. 

All the lights in his room were out, and no sound was to be 
heard except this strange call of the king’s. For it was he who 
had cried. 

Soon was heard the noise of furniture falling, porcelain 
breaking, steps running about the room, and the barking of 
dogs—mingled with new cries. Almost instantly lights burned, 
swords shone in the galleries, and the heavy steps of the Guards 
were heard. 

“To arms!” cried all, “the king calis.” 

And the captain of the guard, the colonel of the Swiss, and 
some attendants, rushed into the king’s room with flambeaux. 

Near an overturned chair, broken cups, and disordered bed, 
stood Henri, looking terrified and grotesque in his night-dress. 
His right hand was extended, trembling like a leaf in the win |, 
and his left held his sword, which he had seized mechanically. 

He appeared dumb through terror, and all the spectators, not 
daring to break the silence, waited with the utmost anxiety. 

Then appeared, half dressed and wrapped in a large cloak, 
the young queen, Louise de Lorraine, blonde and gentle, who 
led the life of a saint upon earth, and who had been awakened 
by her husband’s cries. 

“« Sire,” cried she, also trembling, ‘ nage vhat i is the matter P Mon 
Dieu ! I heard your cries, and I came.’ 


—— > 
< 


36 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“ It—it is nothing,” said the king, without moving his eyes, 
which seemed to be looking in the air for some form invisible 
to all but him. ; ; ? Dee. 

“But your majesty cried out; 1s your majesty suffering ? 
asked the queen. 

Terror was so visibly painted ca the King’s countenance, that 
it began to gain on the others. 

“Oh, sire !” cried the queen again, “in Heaven’s name do 
not leave us in this suspense. Will you have a doctor ?” 

“ A doctor, no,” cried Henri, in the same tone, “ the body is 
not ill, it is the mind ; no doctor—a confessor.” 

Every one looked round ; nowhere was there to be seen any 
traces of what had so terrified the king. However, a confessor 
was sent for; Joseph Foulon, superior of the convent of St. 
Génévitve, was torn from his bed, to come to the king. With 
the confessor, the tumult ceased, and silence was re-established ; 
every one conjectured and wondered—the king was confessing. 

The next day the king rose early, and began to read prayers, 
then he ordered all his friends to be sent for. They sent to 
St. Luc, but he was more suffering than ever. His sleep, or 
rather his lethargy, had been so profound, that he alone had 
heard nothing of the tumult in the night, although he slept so 
near. He begged to be left in bed. At this deplorable recital, 
Henri crossed himself, and sent him a doctor. 

Then he ordered that all the scourges from the convent 
should be brought to him, and, going to his friends, distri- 
buted them, ordering them to scourge each other as hard as they 
could. 

D’Epernon said that as his right arm was in a sling, and he 
could not return the blows he received, he ought to be exempt, 
but the king replied that that would only make it the more ac- 
ceptable to God. 

He himself set the example. He took off his doublet, waist- 
coat, and shirt, and struck himself like a martyr. Chicot tried 
to laugh, as usual, but was warned by a terrible look, that this 
was not the right time, and he was forced to take a scourge like 
the others. 

All at once the king left the room, telling them to wait for 
him. Immediately the blows ceased, only Chicot continued to 
strike D’O, whom he hated, and D’O returned it as well as he 
could. It was a duel with whips. 


The king went to the queen, gave her a pearl necklace worth 


MLE KAN Gy LS GONE AME Ds 37 


25,000 crowns, and kissed her, which he had not done for a 
year. Then he asked her to put off her royal ornaments and 
put on a sack. 

Louise, always good, consented, but asked why her husband 
gave her a necklace, and yet made such a request. 

“ For my sins,” replied he. 

The queen said no more, for she knew, better than any one, 
how many he had to repent of. 

Henri returned, which was a signal for the flagellation to re- 
commence. In ten minutes the queen arrived, with her sack 
on her shoulders. Then tapers were distributed to all the court, 
and barefooted, through the snow, all the courtiers and fine 
ladies went to Montmartre, shivering. At five o’clock the pro- 
menade was over, the convents had received rich presents, the 
feet of all the court were swollen, and the backs of the courtiers 
sore. ‘There had been tears, cries, prayers, incense, and psalms. 
Every one had suffered, without knowing why the king, who 
danced the night before, scourged himself to-day. As for Chi- 
cot, he had escaped at the Porte Montmartre, and, with Brother 
Gorenflot, had entered a publichouse, where he had eaten and 
drank. ‘Then he had rejoined the procession and returned to 
the Louvre. 

In the evening the king, fatigued with his fast and his exer- 
cise, ordered himself a light supper, had his shoulders washed, 
and then went to visit St. Luc. 

“Ah !” cried he, “ God has done well to render life so bitter.” 

** Why so, sire ?” 

“ Because then man, instead of fearing death, longs for it.” 

“Speak for yourself, sire, I do not long for it at all.” 

“Listen, St. Luc, will you follow my example ?” 

“Tf I think it a good one.” 

“T will leave my throne, you your wife, and we will enter a 
cloister. I will call myself Brother Henri——” 

“ Pardon, sire, if you do not care for your crown, of which 
you are tired, I care very much for my wife, whom I know so 
little. Therefore I refuse.” 

“Oh! you are better.” 

“Infinitely better, sire ; I feel quite joyous, and disposed for 
happiness and pleasure.” 

““Poor St. Luc !” cried the king, clasping his hands. 

“You should have asked me yesterday, sire, then I was il? 
and cross. I would have thrown myself into a well for a trifle. 


38 CHICOT, THE FESTEK 


But this evening it is quite a different thing. I have passed a 
good night and a charming day. Mordieu, vive la joie !” 

“You swear, St. Luc.” 

“ Did I, sire? but I think you swear sometimes.” 

“T have sworn, St. Luc, but I shall swear no more.” 

“T cannot say that ; I will not swear more than I can heip, 
and God is merciful.” 

“You think He will pardon me ?” 

‘Oh! Ispeak for myself, not for you, sire. You have sinned 
as a king, I as a private man, and we shall, I trust, be differently 
judged.” 

The king sighed. ‘St. Luc,” said he, “will you pass the 
night in my room ?” 

“Why, what should we do ?” 

“We will light all the lamps, I will go to bed, and you shall 
read prayers to me.” 

“No, thank you, sire.” 

“Vou will not ?” 

“On no account.” 

“You abandon me, St. Luc !” 

“No, I will stay with your majesty, if you will send for music 
and ladies, and have a dance.” 

BOR wot uc St. uc !? 


“T am wild to-night, sire, I want to dance and drink. 


“St. Luc,” said the king, solemnly, “‘ do you ever dream ?” 
“‘ Often, sire.” 


“You believe in dreams 2” ‘ 

“With reason.” 

“How so ?” 

“Dreams console for the reality. Last night 1 had a charm- 
ing dream.” 

‘“‘ What was it ?” 

“1 dreamed that my wife——” 

“You still think of your wife 2” 

“More than ever, sire; well, I dreamed that she, with her 
charming face—for she is pretty, sire——” 

“So was Eve, who ruined us all.” 

“ Well, my wife had procured wings and the form of a bird, 
and so, braving locks and bolts, she passed over the walls of 


the Louvre, and came to my window, crying, ‘ Open, St. Luc, 
open, my husband.’” 


“And you opened ?” 


| 


THE KING AFRAID OF BEING AFRAID. 39 


“T should think so.” 

“Worldly.” 

«As you please, sire.” 

“Then you woke ?” 

** No, indeed, the dream was too charming ; and I hope to- 
night to dream again; therefore I refuse your majesty’s 
obliging offer. IfI sit up, let me at least have something to 
pay me for losing my dream. If your majesty will do as I 
said-———” 

“Enough, St. Luc. I trust Heaven will send you a dream 
to-night which will lead you to repentance.” 

“J doubt it, sire, and I advise you to send away this libertine 
St. Luc, who is resolved not to amend.” 

“No, no, I hope, before to-morrow, grace will have touched 
you as it hasme. Good night, I will pray for you.” 


CHAPTER SV iil: 
HOW THE KING WAS AFRAID OF BEING AFRAID. 


WuEN the king left St. Luc, he found the court, according to 
his orders, in the great galler y- Then he gave D’O,D’Epernon 
and Schomberg an order to retire into the provinces, threatened 
Quelus and Maugiron to punish them if they quarrelled any 
more with Bussy, to whom he gave his hand to kiss, and then 
embraced his brother Francois. 

As for the queen, he was prodigal in politeness to her. 

When the usual time for retiring approached, the king seemed 
trying to retard it. At last ten o’clock struck. 

“Come with me, Chicot,” then said he, “good night, gen- 
tlemen.” 

“Good night, gentlemen,” said Chicot, “we are going to bed. 
I want my barber, my hairdresser, my valet de chambre, and, 
above all, my cream.’ 

“No,” said the king, “T want none of them to-night ; Lent 
is going to begin.” 

“T regret the cream,” said Chicot. 
é The king and Chicot entered the room, which we already 

now. 


40 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Ah ca! Henri,” said Chicot, “I am the favourite to-night. 
Am I handsomer than that Cupid, Quelus ?” 

“Silence, Chicot, and you, gentlemen of the toilette, go out.” 

They obeyed, and the king and Chicot were left alone. 

“Why do you send them away ?” asked Chicot, “they have 
not greased us yet. Are you going to grease me with your own 
royal hand? It would be an act of humility.” 

“Tet us pray,” said Henri. 

“Thank you, that isnotamusing. If that be what you called 
me here for, I prefer to return to the bad company I have left. 
Adieu, my son. Good night.” 

“Stay,” said the king. 

“Oh! this is tyranny. You are a despot, a Phalaris, a Di- 
onysius. All day you have made me tear the shoulders of my 
friends with cow-hide, and now we are to begin again. Do not 
let us do it, Henri, when there’s but two, every blow tells.” 

“ Hold your tongue, miserable chatterer, and think of re- 
pentance.” 

“T repent! And of what? Of being jester to a monk. 
Confiteor—I repent, mea culpa, it is a great sin.” 

““No sacrilege, wretch.” 

“Ah! I would rather be shut up in a cage with lions and 
apes, than with a mad king. Adieu, I am going.” 

The king locked the door. 

“ Henri, you look sinister; if you do not let me go, I will 
cry, I will call, I will break the window, I will kick down the 
door.” 

“Chicot,” said the king, in a melancholy tone, “ you abuse 
my sadness.” ; 

“Ah! I understand, you are afraid to be alone. ‘Tyrants 
always are so. ‘Take my long sword, and let me take the scab- 
bard to my room.” 

At the word ‘afraid,’ Henri shuddered, and he looked ner- 
vously around, and seemed so agitated and grew so pale, that 
Chicot began to think him really ill, and said,— 

“Come, my son, what is the matter, tell your troubles to your 
friend Chicot.” 

The king looked at him and said, “Yes, you are my friend, 
my only friend.” 

‘ There is,” said Chicot, “the abbey of Valency vacant.” 

Listen, Chicot, you are discreet.” 
see There is also that of Pithiviers, where they make such good 


THE KING AFRAID OF BEING AFRAID. 41 


‘In spite of your buffooneries, you are a brave man.” 

“Then do not give me an abbey, give me a regiment.” 

“‘ And even a wise one.” 

“Then do not give me a regiment, make me a counsellor ; 
but no, when I think of it, I should prefer a regiment, for I 
should be always forced to be of the king’s opinion.” 

“Hold your tongue, Chicot, the terrible hour approaches.” 

“Ah! you are beginning again.” 

You will hear.” 

“Hear what ?” 

“Wait, and the event will show you. Chicot, you are 
brave !” 

“T boast of it, but I do not wish to try. Call your captain 
of the guard, your Swiss, and let me go away from this invisible 
danger.” 

“‘Chicot, I command you to stay.” 

“On my word, a nice master. I am afraid, I tell you. 
Help !” 

“Well, drole, if I must, I will tell you all.” 

“ Ah !” cried Chicot, drawing his sword, “ once warned, I 
do not care; tell, my son, tell. Is it a crocodile? my sword 
is sharp, for I use it every week to cut my corns.” And Chicot 
sat down in the arm-chair with his drawn sword between his 
legs. 

“ Last night,” said Henri, ‘‘ I slept——’” 

“And I also,” said Chicot. 

“Suddenly a breath swept over my face.” 

“Tt was the dog, who was hungry, and who licked your 
cream.” 

“T half woke, and felt my beard bristle with terror under my 
mask.” 

“ Ah! you make me tremble deliciously.” 

“Then,” continued the king, in a trembling voice, “then a 
voice sounded through the room, with a doleful vibration.” 

“The voice of the crocodile! I have read in Marco Polo, 
that the crocodile has a voice like the crying of children ; but 
be easy, my son, for if it comes, we will kill it.” 

“¢Tjisten! miserable sinner,’ said the voice—— 

“Oh! it spoke; then it was not a crocodile.” 

“*¢ Miserable sinner,’ said the voice,‘I am the angel of 
God.’” 

“ The angel of God !” 


” 


42 CHICOT, THE GES Dita: 


“Ah! Chicot, it was a frightful voice.” 

“ Was it like the sound of a trumpet ?” 

““* Are you there?” continued the voice, ‘do you hear, har- 
dened sinner ; are you determined to persevere in your iniqui- 
ties?” 

‘“ Ah, really ; he said very much the same as other people, it 
seems to me.” 

“Then, Chicot, followed many other reproaches, which I 
assure you were most painful.” 

“ But tell me what he said, that I may see if he was well 
informed ?” 

“Tmpious ! do you doubt ?” 

“TI? all that astonishes me is, that he waited so long to re- 
proach you. So, my son, you were dreadfully afraid ?” 

“‘Oh, yes, the marrow seemed to dry in my bones.” 

“Tt is quite natural; on my word, I do not know what I 
should have done in your place. And then you called ?” 

PAV eS:~ 

“ And they came ?” 

caves:? 

“ And there was no one here ?” 

“No one.” 

“Tt is frightful.” 

“So frightful, that I sent for my confessor.” 

“ And he came ?” 

‘“‘Tmmediately.” 

“Now, be frank, my son; tell the truth for once. What did 
he think of your revelation ?” 

“ He shuddered.” 

‘“T should think so.” 

“He ordered me to repent, as the voice told me.” 

_‘““ Very well. There can be no harm in repenting. But what 
did he think of the vision >” 
__“ That it was a miracle, and that I must think of it seriously. 
Cherefore, this morning——” 

“ What have you done ?” 
. “T gave 100,000 livres to the Jesuits.” 

““Very well.” 

“And scourged myself and my friends.” 

“ Perfect ! but after ?” 

“Well, what do you think of it, Chicot? It is not to the 
jester I speak. but to the man of sense, to my friend.” 


THE KING AFRAID OF BEING AFRAID. 43 


“ Ah, sire, I think your majesty had the nightmare.” 

“You think so P” 

“Ves, it was a dream, which will not be renewed, unless your 
majesty thinks too much about it.” 

“A dream? No, Chicot, I was awake, my eyes were open.” 

“ T sleep like that.” 

“Ves, but then you do not see, and I saw the moon shining 
through my windows, and its light on the amethyst in the hilt 
of my sword, which lay in that chair where you are.” 

“And the lamp ?” 

“ Had gone out.” 

“ A dream, my son.” 

“‘Why do you not believe, Chicot? It is said that God 
speaks to kings, when He wishes to effect some change on the 
earth.” 

“Ves, He speaks, but so low that they never hear Him.” 

“Well, do you know why I made you stay ?>—that you might 
hear as well as I.” 

“No one would believe me if I said I heard it.” 

“‘ My friend, it is a secret which I confide to your known 
fidelity.” ; 

“Well, I accept. Perhaps it will also speak to me.” 

“Well, what must I do?” 

“Go to bed, my son.” 

“ But——” 

“Do you think that sitting up will keep it away ?” 

“Well, then, you remain.” 

“T said so.” 

“‘ Well, then, I will go to bed.” 

“* Good.” 

“ But you will not ?” 

“Certainly not, I will stay here.” 

“You will not go to sleep ?” 

“Oh! that I cannot promise; sleep is like fear, my son, a 
thing independent of will.” 

“You will try, at least ?” 

“Be easy ; I will pinch myself. Besides, the voice would 
wake me.” 

“ Do not joke about the voice.” 

“Well, well, go to bed.” 

The king sighed, looked round anxiously, and glided trem- 
blingly into bed. Then Chicot established him in his chair, 
arranging round him the pillows and cushions. 


44 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“ How do you feel, sire ?” said he. 

“Pretty well; and you ?” 

“Very weil ; good night, Henri.” 

“ Good night, Chicot; do not go to sleep. 

“Of course not,” said Chicot, yawning fit to break his jaws. 

And they both closed their eyes, the king to pretend to sleep, 
Chicot to sleep really. 


CHAPTER EX. 


HOW THE ANGEL MADE A MISTAKE AND SPOKE TO CHICOT, 
THINKING IT WAS THE KING, 


Tue king and Chicot remained thus for some time. All at once 
the king jumped up in his bed. Chicot woke at the noise. 

« What is it?” asked he, in a low voice. 

“The breath on my face.” 

As he spoke, one of the wax lights went out, then the other, 
and the rest followed. Then the lamp also went out, and the 
room was lighted only by the rays of the moon. At the same 
moment they heard a hollow voice, saying, apparently from 
the end of the room,— 

“‘ Hardened sinner, art thou there 2” 

‘“‘ Yes,” said Henri, with chattering teeth. 

“Oh !” thought Chicot, ‘“ that is a very hoarse voice to come 
from heaven; nevertheless, it is dreadful.” 

* Do you hear ?” asked the voice. 

‘Yes, and I am bowed down to the earth.” 

* Do you believe you obeyed me by all the exterior mum- 
meries which you performed yesterday, without your heart being 
couched ?” 
~ “Very well said,” thought Chicot. He approached the king 
softly. 

“Do you believe now ?” asked the king, with clasped hands. 

ce Wearte: 

“‘ What for >” 

“Hush ! leave your bed quietly, and let me get in.” 

© Why ?” 

“That the anger of the Lord may fall first on me.” 

“Do you think He will spare me for that ?” 


é 


THE ANGEL MAKES A MISTAKE. 45 


“Tet us try,” and he pushed the king gently out and got 
into his place. 

‘‘ Now, go to my chair, and leave all to me.” 

Henri obeyed ; he began to understand. 

“You do not reply,” said the voice; “ you are hardened in 
sin.” 

“Oh! pardon! pardon !” cried Chicot, imitating the king’s 
voice. Then he whispered to Henri, “It is droll that the 
angel does not know me.” 

‘“‘What can it mean ?” 

eo Wait.” 

“ Wretch !” said the voice. 

“ Ves, I confess,” said Chicot; “I am a hardened sinner, a 
dreadful sinner.” 

‘“‘ Then acknowledge your crimes, and repent.” 

“J acknowledge to have been a great traitor to my cousin 
Condé, whose wife I seduced.” 

“Oh! hush,” said the king, “that is so long ago.” 

“T acknowledge,” continued Chicot, “to have been a great 
rogue to the Poles, who chose me for king, and whom I aban- 
doned one night, carrying away the crown jewels. I repent of 
this.” 

“ Ah!” whispered Henri again: “that is all forgotten.” 

“ Hush ! let me speak.” 

“Go on,” said the voice. 

“TI acknowledge having stolen the crown from my brother 
D’Alengon, to whom it belonged of right, as I had formerly 
renounced it on accepting the crown of Poland.” 

*“ Knave !” said the king. 

“Go on,” said the voice. 

“TI acknowledge having joined my mother, to chase from 
France my brother-in-law, the King of Navarre, after having de- 
stroyed all his friends.” 

* Ah !” whispered the king, angrily. 

“Sire, do not let us offend God, by trying to hide what He 
knows as well as we do.” 

“‘ Leave politics,” said the voice. 

“Ah!” cried Chicot, with a doleful voice, “is it my private 
life I am to speak of ?” 

newes.” 


“T acknowledge, then, that I am effeminate, idle, and hypo- 
critical.” 


1”? 


46 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


« Tias true.” 

“T have ill-treated my wife—such a worthy woman.” 

“ One ought to love one’s wife as one’s self, and prefer her to 
all things,” said the voice, angrily. 

“Ah !” cried Chicot, “then I have sinned deeply.” 

“ And you have made others sin by your example.” 

“ht is. true.” 

“Especially that poor St. Luc; and if you do not send him 
home to-morrow to his wife, there will be no pardon for 
you.” 

“ Ah!” said Chicot to the king, “the voice seems to be 
friendly to the house of Cossé.” 

“ And you must make him a duke, to recompense him fox 
fis forced stay.” 

‘“‘Peste!” said Chicot; ‘the angel is much interested for 
M. de St. Luc.” 

“ Oh !” cried the king, without listening, “ this voice from on 
high will kill me.” 

‘Voice from the side, you mean,” said Chicot. 

“How! voice from the side?” 

“Ves ; can you not hear that the voice comes from that wall, 
Henri ?—the angel lodges in the Louvre.” 

“‘ Blasphemer !” 

“Why, it is honourable for you ; but you do not seem to re- 
cognise it. Go and visit him; he is only separated from you 
by that partition.” 

A ray of the moon falling on Chicot’s face, showed it to the 
king so laughing and amused, that he said, “ What! you dare 
to laugh ?” , 

“Yes, and so will you ina minute. Be reasonable, and do 


as I tell you. Go and see if the angel be not in the next 
room.” 


“ But if he speak again ?” 

“Well, Iam here to answer. He is vastly credulous. For 
the last quarter of an hour I have been talking, and he has not 
recognised me. It is not clever !” 


Henri frowned. “I begin to believe you are right, Chicot,” 
said he. 


Go; phen.” 


Henri opened softly the door which led into the corridor. 


He had scarcely entered it, when he heard the voice redoubling 
Its reproaches, and Chicot replying. 


THE ANGEL MAKES A MISTAKE. 4y 


“Yes,” said the voice, ‘you are as inconstant as a woman, 
as soft as a Sybarite, as irreligious as a heathen.” 

“Oh!” whined Chicot, ‘‘is it my fault if I have such a soft 
skin—Such white hands—such a changeable mind? But from 
to-day I will alter—TI will wear coarse linen——” 

However, as Henri advanced, he found that Chicot’s voice 
grew fainter, and the other louder, and that it seemed to come 
from St. Luc’s room, in which he could see a light. He stooped 
down and peeped through the keyhole, and immediately grew 
pale with anger. 

“Par la mordieu !’ murmured he, “is it possible that they 
have dared to play such a trick ?” 

This is what he saw through the key-hole. St. Luc, in a 
dressing-gown, was roaring through a tube the words which he 
had found so dreadful, and beside him, leaning on his shoulder, 
was a lady in white, who every now and then took the tube 
from him, and called through something herself, while stifled 
bursts of laughter accompanied each sentence of Chicot’s, who 
continued to answer in a doleful tone. 

“ Jeanne de Cossé in St. Luc’s room! A hole in the wall ! 
such a trick on me! Ok! they shall pay dearly for it!’ And 
with a vigorous kick he burst open the door. 

Jeanne rushed behind the curtains to hide herself, while St. 
Luc, his face full of terror, feli on his knees before the king, 
who was pale with rage. 

“Ah!” cried Chicot, from the bed, “ Ah! mercy !—Holy 
Virgin! I am dying ”” 

Henri, seizing, in a transport of rage, the trumpet from the 
hands of St. Luc, raised it as if to strike. But St. Luc jumped 
up and cried— 

“Sire, Iam a gentleman; you have no night to strike me!” 

Henri dashed the trumpet violently on the ground. Some 
one picked it up ; it was Chicot, who, hearing the noise, judged 
that his presence was necessary as a mediator. He ran to the 
curtain, and, drawing out poor Jeanne, all trembling— 

“Oh! said he, ‘‘ Adam and Eve after the Fall. You send 
them away, Henri, do you not ?” 

Mes.” 

“Then I will be the exterminating angel.” 

And throwing himself between the king and St. Luc, and 
waving the trumpet over the heads of the guilty couple, said— 

_“This is my Paradise, which you have lost by your disobe- 
dience ; I forbid you to return to it.” 


48 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


Then he whispered to St. Luc, who had his arm round his 
wife— 

“If you have a good horse, kill it, but be twenty leagues from 
here before to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER 


HOW BUSSY WENT TO SEEK FOR THE REALITY OF HIS 
DREAM. 


WueEN Bussy returned home again, he was still thinking of his 
dream. 

“ Morbleu !” said he, “it is impossible that a dream should 
have left such a vivid impression on my mind. I see it all so 
clearly ;—the bed, the lady, the doctor. I must seek for it— 
surely I can find it again.” Then Bussy, after having the band- 
age of his wound resettled by a valet, put on high boots, took 
his sword, wrapped himself in his cloak, and set off for the same 
place where he had been nearly murdered the night before, and 
nearly at the same hour. 

He went in a litter to the Rue Roi-de-Sicile, then got out, 
and told his servants to wait for him. It was about nine in the 
evening, the curfew had sounded, and Paris was deserted. Bussy 
arrived at the Bastille, then he sought for the place where his 
horse had fallen, and thought he had found it ; he next endea- 
voured to repeat his movements of the night before, retreated 
to the wall, and examined every door to find the corner against 
which he had leaned, but all the doors seemed alike. 

“ Pardieu !” said he, “if I were to knock at each of these 
doors, question all the lodgers, spend rooo crowns to make 
valets and old women speak, I might learn what I want to 
mons There are fifty houses; it would take me at least five 
nights.’ 


As he spoke, he perceived a small and trembling light ap- 
proaching. 

This light advanced slowly, and irregularly, stopping occasion- 
ally, moving on again, and going first to the right, then to the 
beft, then, for a minute, coming straight on, and again diverging, 
Bussy leaned against a door, and waited. The light continued 
to advance, and soon he could see a black figure, which, as it 


~ 


~ 


. 


BUSSY SEEKS THE REALITY OF HIS DREAM. 49 


advanced, took the form of a man, holding a lantern in his left 
hand. He appeared to Bussy to belong to the honourable fra- 
ternity of drunkards, for nothing else seemed to explain the 
eccentric movements of the lantern. At last he slipped over a 
piece of ice, and fell. Bussy was about to come forward and 
offer his assistance, but the man and the lantesn were quickly 
up again, ana acivanced directly towards him, when he saw, to 
his great surprise, that the man had a bandage over his eyes. 

“Well!” thought he, “it is a strange thing to play at blind 
man’s buff with a lantern in your hand. Am I beginning to 
dream again? And, good heavens! he is talking to himself. If 
he be not drunk or mad, he is a mathematician.” 

This last surmise was suggested by the words that Bussy 
heard. 

“ 488, 489, 490,” murmured the man, “it must be near here.” 
And then he raised his bandage, and finding himself in front of 
a house, examined it attentively. 

“No, it is not this,” he said. Then, putting back his ban- 
dage, he recommenced his walk and his calculations. 

“ AgI, 492, 493, 494; I must be close.” And he raised his 
bandage again, and, approaching the door next to that against 
which Bussy was standing, began again to examine. 

“Hum!” said he, “it might, but all these doors are so 
alike.” 

“ The same reflection I have just made,” thought Bussy. 

However, the mathematician now advanced to the next door, 
and going up to it, found himself face to face with Bussy. 

“Oh !” cried he, stepping back. 

Ont? cried Bussy. 

“Tt is not possible.” 

“Ves; but it is extraordinary. You are the doctor?” 

“ And you the gentleman ?” 

SAyust SO.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! how strange.” 

“The doctor,” continued Bussy, “who yesterday dressed a 
wound for a gentleman ?” 

“Ves, in the right side.” 

“Exactly so. You had a gentle, light, and skilful hand.” 

“Ah, sir, I did not expect to find you here.” 

“ But what were you looking for ?” 

ane louse.” 

“Then you do not know it?” 


59 ‘CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


«“ How should I? they brought me here with my eyes ban- 
daged.” 

“Then you really came here ?” 

“‘ Rither to this house or the next.” 

“Then I did not dream?” 

“¢ Dream ?” 

“‘T confess I feared it was all a dream.” 

“ Ah! I fancied there was some mystery.” 

“ A mystery which you must help me to unravel.” 

“ Willingly.” 

“What is your name?” 

“ Monsieur, to such a question I ought, perhaps, to reply by 
looking fierce, and saying, ‘ Yours, monsieur, if you piease ; but 
you have a long sword, and I only a lancet ; you seem to me a 
gentleman, and I cannot appear so to you, for I am wet and 
dirty. Therefore, I reply frankly: I am called Rémy-le- 
Haudouin.” 

“ Very well, monsieur ; I thank you. Iam Louis de Cler- 
mont, Comte de Bussy.” 

“Bussy d’Amboise! the hero Bussy!” cried the young 
doctor, joyfully. ‘What, monsieur, you are that famous 
Bussy ie 

“JT am Bussy,” replied he. “ And now, wet and dirty as you 
are, will you satisfy my curiosity ?” 

“The fact is,” said the young man, “that I shall be obliged, 
like Epaminondas the Theban, to stay two days at home, for I 
have but one doublet and trousers. But, pardon, you did me 
the honour to question me, i think °” ; 

“Yes, monsieur, I asked you how you came to this house 2” 

“M. le Comte, this is how it happened ; I lodge in the Rue 


Beauheillis, 502 steps from here. I am a poor surgeon, not 
unskilful, I hope.” 


“JT can answer for that.” 


“And who has studied much, but without any patients. 
Seven or eight days ago, a man having received behind the 
Arsenal a stab with a knife, I sewed up the wound, and cured 
him. This made for me some reputation in the neighbour- 
hood, to which I attribute the happiness of having been last 
night awoke by a pretty voice.” 

“ A woman’s ?” 


“Ves, but, rustic as I am, I knew it to b i 
; d : e the voice of a ser- 
vant. I know them well.” ig 





BUSSY SEEKS THE REALITY OF HIS DREAM. 51 


“ And what did you do?” 

“‘T rose and opened my door, but scarcely had I done so, 
when two little hands, not very soft, but not very hard, put a 
bandage over my eyes, without saying anything.” 

“<¢QOhY! she said, ‘come, do not try to see where you are 
going, be discreet, here is your recompense ;’ and she placed in 
my hand a purse.” 

“Ah! and what did you say ?” 

“ That I was ready to follow my charming conductress. I 
did not know if she were charming or not, but I thought that 
the epithet, even if exaggerated, could do no harm.” 

“¢ And you asked no more ?” 

“JT had often read these kinds of histories in books, and I 
had remarked that they always turned out well for the doctor. 
Therefore I followed, and I counted 498 paces.” 

“Good ; then this must be the door.” 

“ Tt cannot be far off, at all events, unless she led me by 

ome détour, which I half suspect.” 

“But did she pronounce no name ?” 

Eoone.’’ 

“But you remarked something ?” 

“‘ All that one could with one’s fingers, a door with nails, then 
a passage, and then a staircase e 

On the ‘left °” 

“Ves ; and I counted the steps. Then I think we came to, 
a corridor, for they opened three doors.” 

Well 2” 

“Then I heard another voice, and that belonged to the, 
mistress, I am sure ; it was sweet and gentle.” 

“Ves, yes, it was hers.” 

“ Good, it was hers.” 

“T am sure of it.” 

“Then they pushed me into the room where you were, and 
told me to take off my bandage, when I saw you——” ; 

“Where was 1 ?” 

fen a bed.” 

“A bed of white and gold damask ?” 

pes,” 

“In a room hung with tapestry >” 

Syust so.” 

“ And a painted ceiling ?” 

* Yes, and between two windows——’ 








? 


4—2 


52 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“A portrait ?” 

eo Ves:2 

“ Representing a woman about nineteen”? 

Co ee 

“ Blonde, and beautiful as an angel °” 

“More beautiful.” 

“ Bravo ! what did you do then?” 

“TJ dressed your wound.” 

“ And, ma foi! very well.” 

© As well as I could.” 

“ Admirably ! this morning it was nearly well.” 

“Tt is thanks to a balm I have composed, and which appears 
to me sovereign, for many times, not knowing who to practise 
upon, I have made wounds on myself, and they were always well 
in two or three days.” 


“My dear M. Rémy, you are a charming doctor. Well, 
afterwards ?” 


“You fainted again. The voice asked me how you were.” 

“ From whence ?” 

“ From a room at the side.” 

“So you did not see her ?” 

INO! + 

«And you replied >” 

“That the wound was not dangerous, and in twenty-four 
hours would be well.” 

‘*She seemed pleased ?” 

‘Charmed ; for she cried, ‘I am very glad of that.’ ” 

“My dear M. Rémy, I will make your fortune. Well >” 


“That was all; I had no more to do; and the voice said, 
*‘M. Rémy—— ” 


“She knew your name ?” 
“Yes; ‘M. Rémy,’ said she, ‘be a man of honour to the 
last ; do not compromise a poor woman carried away by an 


excess of humanity. Take your bandage, and let them take 
you straight home.’ ” 


“You promised ?” 
“ T gave my word.” 
“ And you kept it 2” 
“ As you see, for I am seeking now.” 
: “You are an honest man, and here is my hand,” cried 
ussy. 


“ Monsieur, it will be an eternal glory for me to have touched 


BUSSY SEEKS THE REALITY OF HIS DREAM. 53 


the hand of Bussy d’Amboise. However, I have a scruple. 
There were ten pistoles in the purse.” 

= Well 2” 

“Tt is too much for a man who charges five sous for his visits, 
when he does not give them gratis, and I was seeking the 
house % 

“To return the purse ?” 

“Just so.” 

“ My dear M. Rémy, it is too much delicacy ; you have earned 
the money well, and may surely keep it.” 

“ You think so ?” said Rémy, well pleased. 

“ But I also am in your debt ; indeed, it was I who ought to 
have paid you, and not the lady. Come, give me your confi- 
dence. What do you do in Paris ?” 

“What doI do? Ido nothing; but I would if I hada con- 
nection.” 

“Well, that is just right ; I will give you a patient. Willyou 
have ine? I am famous practice ; for there is scarcely a day 
when I do not deface God’s noblest work for others, or they for 
me. Will you undertake the care of all the holes I make in the 
skin of others, or others in mine ?” 

** Ah, M. le Comte! this honour.” 

“No; you are just the man I want. You shall come ana 
live with me ; you shall have your own rooms, and your own 
servants ; accept, or you will really annoy me.” 

““M. le Comte, I am so overjoyed, 1 cannot express it. I 
will work—I will make a connection——” 

“But, no, I tell you, I keep you for myself and my friends. 
Now, do you remember anything more ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“Ah, well! help me to find out, if it be possible.” 

“T will.” 

“ And you, who are a man of observation, how do you ac- 
count for it, that after being doctored by you, I found myself 
by the Temple, close to the ditch.” 

“ You ? 

“Yes, I. Did you help to take me there ?” 

‘Certainly not, and I should have opposed it if they had 
consulted me; for the cold might have done you much 
harm.” 


“Then I can tell nothing. Will you search a little more 
with me ?” 





54 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“J will, if you wish it; but I much fear it will be vseless for 
all these houses are alike.” 

“Well, we must come again by day.” 

“Ves; but then we shall be seen.” 

“Then we must inquire.” 

“ We will, monseigneur.” 

“ And we shall unravel the mystery. Be sure, Rémy, now 
there are two of us to work.” 


CHAPTER 
M. BRYAN DE MONSOREAU. 


Ir was more than joy, it was almost delirium, which agitated 
Bussy when he had acquired the certainty that the lady of his 
dream was a reality, and had, in fact, given him that generous 
hospitality of which he had preserved the vague remembrance 
in his heart. He would not let the young doctor go, but, dirty 
as he was, made him get into the litter with him ; he feared that 
if he lost sight of him, he too would vanish like a dream. He 
would have liked to talk all night of the unknown lady, and ex- 
plain to Rémy how superior she was even to her portrait ; but 
Rémy, beginning his functions at once, insisted that he should 
go to bed; fatigue and pain gave the same counsel, and these 
united powers carried the point. f 

The next day, on awaking, he found Rémy at his bedside. 
The young man could hardly believe in his good fortune, and 
wanted to see Bussy again to be sure of it. 

“Well !” said he, “ how are you, M. le Comte ?” 
. oe well, my dear Esculapius; and you, are you satis- 

edi r2 

“So satisfied, my generous protector, that I would not change 
places with the king. But I now must see the wound.” 

“Look.” And Bussy turned round for the young surgeon to 
take off the bandage. All looked well ; the wound was nearly 


closed. Bussy, quite happy, had slept well, and sleep and hap- 
piness had aided the doctor. - 


“Well,” said Bussy, “ what do you say ?” 
“T dare not tell you that you are nearly well, for fear you 





M. BRYAN DE MONSOREAU, 55 


should send me back to the Rue Beauheillis, five hundred paces 
from the famous house.” 

“Which we will find, will we not, Rémy ?” 

“T should think so.” 

“Well, my friend, look on yourself as one of the house, and 
to-day, while you move your things, let me go to the féte of the 
installation of the new chief huntsman.” 

“Ah! you want to commit follies already.” 

“No, I promise to be very reasonable.” 

“But you must ride.” 

“Tt is necessary.” 

“Have you a horse with an easy pace: 

“ T have four to choose from.” 

“ Well, take for to-day the one you would choose for the lady 
of the portrait you know.” 

“Know! Ah, Rémy, you have found the way to my heart 
for ever; I feared you would prevent me from going to this 
chase, or rather this imitation of one, and all the ladies of the 
Court, and many from the City, will be admitted to it. Now, 
Rémy, this lady may be there. She certainly is not a simple 
bourgeoise—those tapestries, that bed, so much luxury as well 
as good taste, show a woman of quality, or, at least, a rich one. 
If I were to meet her there !” 

“ All is possible,” replied Rémy, philosophically. 

“ Except to find the house,” sighed Bussy. “ Orto penetrate 
when we have found it.” 

“Oh! I have a method.” 

“What is it ?” 

“Get another sword wound.” 

“Good ; that gives me the hope that you will keep me.” 

“Be easy, I feel as if I had known you for twenty years, and 
could not do without you.” 

The handsome face of the young doctor grew radiant with 

oy. 

“Well, then,” said he, “it is decided ; you go to the chase to 
look for the lady, and I go to look for the house.” 

“Tt will be curious if we each succeed.” 

There had been a great chase commanded in the Bois de 
Vincennes, for M. de Monsoreau to enter on his functions of 
chief huntsman. Most people had believed, from the scene 
of the day before, that the king would not attend, and much 
astonishment was expressed when it was announced that he had 


56 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


set off with his brother and all the court. The rendezvous was 
at the Point St. Louis. It was thus they named a cross-road 
where the martyr king used to sit under an oak-tree and ad- 
minister justice. Every one was therefore assembled here at 
nine o’clock, when the new officer, object of the general curiosity, 
unknown as he was to almost every one, appeared on a mag- 
nificent black horse. All eyes turned towards him. 

He was a man about thirty-five, tall, marked by the small-pox, 
and with a disagreeable expression. Dressed in a jacket of 
green cloth braided with silver, with a silver shoulder belt, on 
which the king’s arms were embroidered in gold; on his head 
a cap with a long plume; in his left hand a spear, and in his 
right the éstortuaire* destined for the king, M. de Monsoreau, 
might look like a terrible warrior, but not certainly like a hand- 
some cavalier. 

“Fie! what an ugly figure you have brought us, monseigneur,” 
said Bussy, to the Duc d’Anjou, “are these the sort of gentle- 
men that your.avour seeks for out of the provinces? Certainly, 
one could hardly find such in Paris, which is nevertheless as 
well stocked with ugliness. They say that your highness made 
a great point of the king’s appointing this man.” 

‘“M. de Monsoreau has served me well, and I recompense 
him,” replied the duke. 

“Well said, monseigneur, it is rare for princes to be grateful ; 
but if that be all, I also have served you well, and should wear 
the embroidered jacket more gracefully, I trust, than M. de 
Monsoreau. He has a red beard, I see also, which is an ad- 
ditional beauty.” 

“T never knew that a man must be an Apollo, or Antinous, 
to fill an office at court.” 

‘““You never heard it ; astonishing !” 

“T consult the heart and not the face—the services rendered 
and promised.” 

“Your highness will say I am very envious ; but I search, 
and uselessly, I confess, to discover what service this Monsoreau 
can have rendered you.” 

“You are too curious, Bussy,” said the duke, angrily. 

“Just like princes,” cried Bussy, with his ordinary freedom, 


The éstortuaire was a stick, which the chi 
the king, 
wallop. 


‘ ef huntsman presented to 
to put aside the branches of the trees when he was going at full 


MM. BRYAN DE MONSOREAU, 57 


“they ask you everything ; but if you ask a question in return, 
you are too curious.” 

“Well! go and ask M. de Monsoreau, himself.” 

“Ah! you are night. He is but a simple gentleman, and if 
he do not reply, I shall know what to say.” 

“What ?” 

‘Tell him he is impertinent.” And, turning from the prince, 
Bussy approached M. de Monsoreau, who was in the midst of 
the circle. 

Bussy approached, gay and smiling, and his hat in his hand. 

“Pardon, monsieur, but you seem all alone. Is it that the 
favour which you enjoy has already made you enemies ?” 

‘I do not know, monsieur, but it is probable. But, may I 
ask, to what I owe the honour that you do me in invading my 
solitude ?” 

“Ma foi, to the great admiration that M. le Duc d’Anjou has 
inspired in me for you.’ 

““ How so ?” 

“‘ By recounting to me the exploit for which you were made 
chief huntsman.” 

M. de Monsoreau grew so frightfully pale, that the marks in 
his face looked like black spots on his yellow skin; at the same 
time he looked at Bussy in a manner that portended a violent 
storm. Bussy saw that he had done wrong ; but he was not a 
man to draw back ; on the contrary, he was one of those who 
generally repair an indiscretion by an impertinence 

“Vou say, monsieur,” said Monsoreau, “that the duke re- 
counted to you my last exploit ?” 

“Ves, monsieur, but I should much like to hear the story 
from your own lips.” 

M. de Monsoreau clasped his dagger tighter in his hand, as 
though he longed to attack Bussy. 

“Ma foi, monsieur,” said he, “I was quite disposed to grant 
your request, and recognise your courtesy, but unfortunately 
here is the king arriving, so we must leave it for another time.” 

Indeed, the king, mounted on his favourite Spanish horse, 
advanced rapidly towards them. He loved handsome faces, 
and was therefore little pleased with that of M. de Monsoreau. 
However, he accepted, with a good grace, the éstortuaire which 
he presented to him, kneeling, according to custom. As soon 
as the king was armed, the chase commenced, 

Bussy watched narrowly every one that passed, looking for 


58 CHICO T? THE. JESTER. 


the original of the portrait, but in vain ; there were pretty, even 
beautiful and charming women, but not the charming creature 
whom he sought for. He was reduced to conversation, and the 
company of his ordinary friends. Antragues, always laughing 
and talking, was a great amusement. a 

“We have a frightful chief huntsman,” said he to Bussy, 
“do you not think so?” tm MG 

“TJ find him horrible ; what a family it must be if his children 
are like him. Do you know his wife ?” 

“ He is not married.” 

“ How do you know?” 

“ From Madame de Vendron, who finds him very handsome, 
and would willingly make him her fourth husband. See how 
she keeps near him.” 

“ What property has he?” 

“Oh! a great deal in Anjou.” 

Then hes rich?’ 

“ They say so, but that is all; he is not of very good birth. 
But see, there is M. le Duc d’Anjou calling to you.” 

“ Ah! ma fol, he must wait. Iam curious about this man. 
I find him singular, I hardly know why. And such an odd 
name.” 

“ Oh! it comes from Mons Soricis ; Livarot knows all about 





that.—Here, Livarot ; this Monsoreau——” 
“ Well.” 
“Tell us what you know about him 4 


“Willingly. Firstly, I am afraid of him.” 

“Good ; that is what you think ; now tell us what¢you know.” 

“Listen. I was going home one night 

“Tt begins in a terrible manner.” 

“Pray let me finish. It was about six months ago, I was 
returning from my uncle D’Entragues, through the wood of 
Méridor, when all at once I heard a frightful cry, and I saw 
pass, with an empty saddle, a white horse, rushing through the 
wood. I rode on, and at the end of a long avenue, darkened 
by the approaching shades of night, I saw a man on a black 
horse; he seemed to fly. Then I heard again the same cry, 
and I distinguished before him on the saddle a woman, on 
whose mouth he had his hand. I had a gun in my hand—you 


know I aim well, and I should have killed him, but my gun 
missed fire.” 


“Well?” 





M. BRYAN DE MONSOREAU. 59 


“‘T asked a woodcutter who this gentleman on the black horse 
was, and he said, ‘ M. de Monsoreau.’” 

“* Well,” said Antragues, ‘‘it is not so uncommon to carry 
away a woman, Is it, Bussy ?” 

“‘No; but, at least, one might let them cry out.” 

“* And who was the woman ?” 

“That I do not know; but he has a bad reputation.” 

“Do you know anything else about him ?” 

“ No; but he is much feared by his tenantry. However, he 
is a good hunter, and will fill his post better than St. Luc would 
have done, for whom it was first destined.” 

“Do you know where St. Luc is ?” 

“No; is he still the king’s prisoner ?” 

“‘ Not at all; he set off at one o’clock this morning to visit 
his country house with his wife.” 

“ Banished ?” 

“Tt looks like it.” 

“«Tmpossible !” 

“True as the gospel; Marshal de Brissac told me so this 
morning.” 

“Well! it has served M. de Monsoreau—— 

*“ Ah! I know now.” 

“ Know what 2” 

“‘ The service that he rendered to the duke.” 

“Who? St. Luc?” 

“No; Monsoreau.” 

“ Really.” 

“‘ Ves, you shall see ; come with me,” and Bussy, followed by 
Livarot and Antragues, galloped after the Duc d’Anjou. 

“ Ah, monseigneur,” said he, ‘what a precious man M. de 
Monsoreau is.” 

“ Ah! really ; then you spoke to him ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

‘<¢ And asked him what he had done for me?” 

“ Certainly ; that was all I spoke to him for.” 

“ And what did he say ?” 

“He courteously confessed that he was your purveyor.” 

Of same ?” 

‘“No ; of women.” 

“What do you mean, Bussy 2” cried the duke, angrily. 

*T mean, monseigneur, that he carries away women for you 
on his great black horse, and that as they are ignorant of the 


, 


60 CHICOT, THE JESTER 


honour reserved for them, he puts his hand on their mouths to 
prevent their crying out.” ; 

The duke frowned, and ground his teeth with anger, grew 
pale, and galloped on so fast, that Bussy and his companions 
were left in the rear. 

«Ah! ah! it seems that the joke is a good one,” said An- 
tragues. 

“ And so much the better, that every one does not seem to 
find it a joke,” said Bussy. 

A moment after, they heard the duke’s voice calling Bussy. 
He went, and found the duke laughing. 

“Oh!” said he, “it appears that what I said was droll.” 

“TJ am not laughing at what you said.” 

“Sg much the worse ; I should have liked to have made a 
prince laugh, who hardly ever does so.” 

“TJ laugh at your inventing a false story to find out the true 
one.” 

“No, I told you the truth.” 

“Well, then, as we are alone, tell me your little history. 
Where did it happen ?” 

“Tn the wood of Méridor.” 

The duke grew pale again, but did not speak. 

“Decidedly,” thought Bussy, “the duke is mixed up with 
that story. Pardieu! monseigneur,” said he, “as M. de Mon- 
soreau seems to have found the method of pleasing you so well, 
teach it to me.” 

*‘ Pardieu! yes, Bussy, I will tell you how. Listen; I met, 
by chance, at church, a charming woman, and as some features 
of her face, which I only saw through a veil, recalled to me a 
lady whom I had much toved, I followed her, and found out 
where she lived. I have gained over her servant, and have a 
key of the house.” 

“‘ Well, monseigneur, all seems to go well for you.” 


“But they say she is a great vrude. although free, young, and 
beautiful.” 


“ Ah! you are romancing.” 

“Well, you are brave, and love me ?” 

‘‘T have my days.” 

“ For being brave ?” 

“No, for loving you.” 

“ Well, is this one of the days ?” 

“J will try and make it one, if I can serve your highness.” 


M. BRYAN DE MONSOREAU. 61 


‘Well, I want you to do for me what most people do for 
themselves.” 

“Make love to her, to find out if she be a prude ?” 

“No, find out if she has a lover. I want you to lay in wait 
and discover who the man is that visits her.” 

“« There is a man then ?” 

“| fear so.” 

“ Lover, or husband ?” 

“That is what I want to know.” 

« And you want me to find out ?” 

“Tf you will do me that great favour—— 

“Vou will make me the next chief huntsman.” 

«‘T have never yet done anything for you.” 

“Oh! you have discovered that at last.” 

“‘ Well, do you consent ?” 

“To watch the lady >” 

Mies.) 

‘‘ Monseigneur, I confess I do not like the commission.” 

“ You offered to do me a service, and you draw back already *” 

“ Because you want me to be a spy.” 

“T ask you as a friend.” 

“ Monseigneur, this is a sort of thing that every man must do 
for himself, even if he be a prince.” 

“Then you refuse ?” 

“Ma foi! yes.” 

The duke frowned. ‘‘ Well, I will go myself,” said he, ‘‘ and 
if I am killed or wounded, I shall say that I begged my frend 
Bussy to undertake the task, and that for the first time he was 
prudent.” 

“ Monseigneur, you said to me the other night, ‘ Bussy, I hate 
all those minions of the king’s who are always laughing at and 
insulting us; go to this wedding of St. Luc’s, pick a quarrel and 
try to get rid of them.’ I went; they were five, and I was alone. 
I defied them all ; they laid wait for me, attacked me all together, 
and killed my horse, yet I wounded three of them. ‘To-day 
you ask me to wrong awoman. Pardon, monseigneur, but that 
is past the service which a prince should exact from a gallant 
man, and I refuse.” 

“So be it; I will do my work myself, or with Aurilly, as I 
have done already.” 

“Oh!” said Bussy, with a sudden thought. 

“What 2” 


? 


62 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“ Were you engaged or it the night when you saw the am- 
bush laid for me?” 

‘Oust So.” : eee! 

“Then your beautiful unknown lives near the Bastille. 

“ Opposite the Rue St. Catherine. It is a dangerous place 
as you know.” — ; 

“ Has your highness been there since ? 

“‘ Vesterday.” 

“ And you saw ?” 

“ A man spying all about and who at last stopped at her 
door.” 

“‘ Was he alone ?” 

“Ves, at first. Afterwards he was joined by another, with a 
lantern in his hand.” 

cA? 

“Then they began to talk together, and at last, tired of wait- 
ing, I went away. And before I venture into the house, where 
I might be killed ——” 

“Vou would like one of your friends to try it.” 

“They would riot have my enemies, nor run the same risk ; and 
then they might report to me——” 

“In your place I would give up this woman.” 

“No, she is too beautiful.” 

**- Vou said you hardly saw her.” 

“T saw her enough to distinguish splendid blonde hair, mag- 
nificent eyes, and such a complexion !” 

‘At ah!” 

“You understand! one does not easily renounee such a 
woman.” ° 

** No, I feel for you.” 

Vou jest, 

‘No, on my word, and the proof is, that if you will give me 
my instructions, I will watch this evening.” 

“You retract your decision.” 

“There is no one but the pope infallible ; now tell me what 
T am to do.” 

“You will have to hide a little way off, and if a man enter 
follow him to find out who he is.” 

“ But if, in entering, he close the door behind him ?” 

“T told you I had a key.” 


_ “Ah! true; then there is only one more thing to fear, that 
i should follow a wrong man to a wrong door.” 


M. BRYAN DE MONSOREAU. 63 


‘You cannot mistake ; this door is the door of an alley, and 
at the end of the alley there i Is a staircase ; mount twelve steps, 
and you will be in a corridor.” 

“ How do you know all this, if you have never been in ?” 

“ Did I not tell you I had gained over the servant? She 
told me all.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! how convenient it is to bea prince. I should 
have had to find out all for myself, which would have taken me 
an enormous time, and I might have failed after all.” 

“Then you consent ?” 

“Can I refuse your highness? But will you come with me 
to show me the house ?” 

“Useless ; as we return from the chase, we will make a 
détour, and pass through the Porte St. Antoine, and I will point 
it out to you.’ 

“Very well, and what am I to do to the man if he comes ?” 

“ Only follow him till you learn who he is. I leave to you 
your mode of action. And not a word to any one.’ 

“ No, on my honour.” 

“And you will go alone?” 

“©uite,” 

“ Well, then, it is settled ; I show you the door on our way 
home ; then you come with me, and I give you the key.” 

Bussy and the prince then rejoined the rest. The king was 
charmed with the manner in which M. de Monsoreau had con- 
ducted the chase. 

“‘ Monseigneur,” then said M. de Monsoreau to the duke, 
“1 owe my place and these compliments to you.” 

‘But you know that you must go to-night to Fontainebleau, 
where the king will hunt to-morrow and the day after.” 

“I know, monseigneur ; I am prepared to start to-night. 

“ Ah, M. de Monsoreau, there is no more rest for you,” said 
Bussy, ‘‘ you wished to be chief huntsman, and you are so, and 
now you will have at least fifty nights’ rest less than other men. 
Luckily you are not married.” 

At this joke, Monsoreau’s face was covered once more with 
that hideous paleness which gave to him so sinister an aspect. 


€4 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


CHAPTER XII 
HOW BUSSY FOUND BOTH THE PORTRAIT AND THE ORIGINAL, 


Tur chase terminated about four o’clock in the evening, and at 
five all the court returned to Paris. As they passed by the 
Bastille, the duke said to Bussy, “ Look to the right, at that 
little wooden house with a statue of the Virgin before it ; well, 
count four houses from that. It is the fifth you have to go to, 
just fronting the Rue St. Catherine.” 

“‘T see it; and look! at the sound of the trumpets announc- 
ing the king, all the windows are filled with gazers.” 

“Except the one I show you, where the curtains remain 
closed.” 

“But there is a corner lifted,” said Bussy, with a beating 
heart. 

“Ves, but we can see nothing. The lady is well guarded. 
However, that is the house.” 

When Bussy returned, he said to Rémy, “ Have you discovered 
the house >?” 

“ No, monseigneutr.” 

“ Well, I believe I have been more lucky.” 

“ How so, monsieur, have you been seeking ?” 

“‘T passed through the street.” 

** And you recognised the house ?” 

“Providence, my dear friend, has mysterious ways.” 

** Then you are sure ?” 

“ Not sure, but Ishope.” 

“And when shall I know if you are right ?” 

“To-morrow morning.” 

‘“‘ Meanwhile, do you want me 2” 

“No, my dear Rémy.” 

“Shall I not follow you >” 

“* Tmpossible.” 

oe eee ee | 
Sa a! the recommendation is useless, my prudence is well 

nown. 

Bussy dined like a man who does not know when he will sup, 
then, at eight o'clock, choosing the best of his swords, and 
attaching, in spite of the king’s orders, a pair of pistols to his 
belt, went in his litter to the corner of the Rue St. Paul. 


4 





BUSSY FINDS THE PORTRAIT AND THE ORIGINAL. 65 


He easily recognised the house again, and then, wrapped in 
his cloak, hid at the corner of the street, determined to wait for 
two fens! and at the end of that time, if no one came, to act 
for himself. He had scarcely been there ten minutes, when he 
saw two cavaliers coming. One of them dismounted, gave his 
horse to the other, who was probably a lackey, and who went 
away with the horses, and advanced towards the house pointed 
out to Bussy, and, after glancing round to see if he were ob- 
served, opened the door and went in. Bussy waited two or 
three minutes, and then followed him. He advanced slowly and 
softly, found the staircase, and went up. In the corridor he 
stopped, for he heard a voice say, “ Gertrude, tell your mistress 
that it is I, and that I must come in.’ 

This was said in an imperious tone, and, a minute after, Bussy 
heard a woman’s voice say : 

‘Pass into the drawing-room, monsieur, and madame will 
come to you.” 

Then he heard the sound of a door shutting. He made a 
few steps silently, and extending his hand, felt a door; he went 
in, found a second, in which was a key; he turned it, and entered 
the room tremblingly. The room in which he found himself 
was dark, except from the light shining from another. By this 
he could see two windows, hung with tapestry, which sent a 
thrill of joy through the young man’s heart. On the ceiling he 
could faintly see the mythological figures; he extended his 
hand, and felt the sculptured bed. There was no more doubt, 
he was in the room where he had awakened the night of his 
wound. 

Bussy hid behind the bed-curtains to listen. He heard in 
the adjoining room the impatient step of the unknown; from 
time to time he stopped, murmuring between his teeth, ‘ Will 
she come ?” 

Presently a door opened, and the rustling of a silk dress 
struck on Bussy’s ear. Then he heard a woman’s voice, ex- 
pressive at once of fear and disdain, saying : 

“ Here I am, monsieur, what do you want now?” 

“Madame,” replied the man, ‘I have the honour of telling 
you that, forced to set off to-morrow morning for Fontainebleau, 
I come to pass the night with you.” 

“Do you bring me news of my father ?” 

““ Madame, listen to me——” 

* Monsieur, you know what we agreed yesterday, when I 


J 


66 CHICOT.,. THEJESTE ic 


consented to become your wife, that, before all things, either 
my father should come to Paris, or I should go to him.” 

““ Madame, as soon as I return from Fontainebleau, I give you 
my word of honour, but meanwhile——” ito k 

“Oh! monsieur, do not close that door, it is useless; I will 
not pass a single night under the same roof with you until you 
bring me my father.” And the lady, who spoke thus, whistled 
through a silver whistle, which was then the manner of calling 
servants. 

Immediately the door opened, and a young, vigorous-looking 
girl entered. As she went in, she left the door open, which 
threw a strong light into the room where Bussy was hid, and 
between the two windows he saw the portrait. Bussy now crept 
noiselessly along to where he could peep into the room. How- 
ever carefully he moved, the floor creaked. At the noise the 
lady turned, she was the original of the portrait. The man, 
seeing her turn, turned also ; it was M. de Monsoreau. 

“ Ah!” thought Bussy, “ the white horse, the woman carried 
away, there is some terrible history.” 

Bussy, as we have said, could see them both ; she, standing 
up, pale and disdainful. He, not pale, but livid, agitated his 
foot impatiently. 

“Madame,” said he, at last, “do not hope to continue with 
me this character of a persecuted woman; you are at Paris, in 
my house, and, still more, you are Comtesse de Monsoreau, that 
is to say, my wife.” 

“Tf I am your wife, why refuse to conduct me to my father? 
Why continue to hide me from the eyes of the world 2” 

“You have forgotten the Duc d’Anjou, madame.” 

“You assured me that, once your wife, I should have no 
more to fear from him.” 

“That is to say fi 

“You promised me that.” 

“But still, madame, I must take precautions.” 

“ Well, monsieur, when you have taken them, return to me.” 

“ Diana,” said the count, who was growing visibly angry, 
“Diana, do not make a jest of this sacred tie.” 

‘““ Act so, monsieur, that I can have confidence in the hus- 
band, and I will respect the marriage.” 

“Oh! this is too much !” cried the count. “I am in my own 
house, you are my wife, and this night you shall be mine.” 

Bussy put his hand on his sword-hilt, and made a step for- 
ward, but Diana did not give him time to appear. 





BUSSY FINDS THE PORTRAIT AND THE ORIGINAL. 6% 


“Stay,” said she, drawing a poignard from her belt, “ here is 
my answer.” And rushing into the room where Bussy was, she 
shut the door and locked it, while Monsoreau exhausted hint- 
self in menaces and in blows on the door. 

“If you break this door you will find me dead on the 
threshold.” 

“And be easy, madame, you shall be revenged,” said Bussy. 

Diana was about to utter a cry, but her fear of her husband 
was strong enough to restrain her. She remained pale and 
trembling, but mute 

M. de Monsoreau struck violently with his foot, but convinced 
that Diana would execute her menace, went out of the drawing- 
room, shutting the door violently behind him. Then they 
heard him going down the stairs. 

“‘But you, monsieur,” said Diana, turning to Bussy, ‘ who are 
you, and how came you here ?” 

“Madame,” said Bussy, opening the door, and kneeling before 
her, “I am the man whose life you preserved. You cannot 
think that I come to your house with any bad designs.” As 
the light streamed in, Diana recognised him at once. 

“Ah! you here, monsieur,”. cried she, clasping her hands, 
** you were here—you heard all 2” 

“ Alas! yes, madame.” 

“ But who are you ? your name, monsieur ?” 

** Madame, I am Louis de Clermont, Comte de Bussy.” 

“Bussy ! you are the brave Bussy!” cried Diana, filling with 
joy the heart of the young man. “Ah! Gertrude!” cried she, 
turning to her servant, who, hearing her mistress talking to some 
one, had entered in terror, ‘‘ Gertrude, I have no more to fear, 
for from this time I place myself under the safeguard of the 
most noble and loyal gentleman in France.” ‘Then, holding 
out her hand to Bussy : 

“Rise, monsieur,” said she, “I know who you are, now you 
must know who I am.” 


CEEAP PER xereis 
WHO DIANA WAS. 


Bussy tose, bewildered at his own happiness, and entered with 
Diana into the room which M. de Monsoreau had just quitted. 


5—2 


63 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


He looked at Diana with astonishment and admiration ; he had 
not dared to hope that the woman whom he had sought for, 
would equal the woman of his dream, and now the reality sur- 
passed all that he had taken for a caprice of his imagination. 
Diana was about nineteen, that is to say, 1n the first éclat of 
that youth and beauty which gives the purest colouring to the 
flower, the finest flavour to the fruit. There was no mistaking 
the looks of Bussy ; Diana felt herself admired. At last she 
broke the silence. 

“Monsieur,” said she, “ you have told me who you are, but 
not how you came here.” 

“ Madame, the cause of my presence here will come naturally 
out of the recital you have been good enough to promise me ; 
IT am sure of it, from some words of your conversation with M. 
de Monsoreau.” 

“J will tell you all, monsieur ; your name has been sufficient 
to inspire me with full confidence, for I have always heard of it 
as of that of a man of honour, loyalty, and courage.” 

Bussy bowed, and Diana went on. 

“Tam the daughter of the Baron de Méridor—that is to say, 
the only heiress of one of the noblest and oldest names in 
Anjou.” 

“There was,” said Bussy, “a Baron de Meéridor, who, 
although he could have saved himself, came voluntarily and 
gave up his sword at the battle of Pavia, when he heard that the 
king was a prisoner, and begged to accompany Francis to 
Madrid, partook his captivity, and only quitted him to come to 
France and negotiate his ransom.” 

“Tt was my father, monsieur, and if ever you enter the great 
hall of the Chateau de Méridor you will see, given in memory 
of this devotion, the portrait of Francis I., painted by Leonardo 
da Vinci.” -—“ Ah !” said Bussy, “in those times kings knew 
how to recompense their followers.” 

“On his return from Spain my father married. His two first 
children, sons, died. This was a great grief to the Baron de 
Méridor. When the king died, my father quitted the court 
and shut himself up with his wife in the Chateau de Méridor. 
It was there that I was born, ten years after the death of my 
brothers. 

“Then all the love of the baron was concentrated on the 
child of his old age ; his love for me was idolatry. Three years 
after my birth I lost my mother, and, too young to feel my loss, 



























































DIANA DE MERIDOR, 








WHO DIANA WAS. 69 


my smiles helped to console my father. As I was all to him, 
so was he also all to me. I attained my sixteenth year with- 
out dreaming of any other world than that of my sheep, my 
peacocks, my swans, and my doves, without imagining that this 
life would change, or wishing that it should. 

“The castle of Méridor was surrounded by vast forests, be- 
longing to the Duc d’Anjou; they were filled with deer and 
stags, whom no one thought of tormenting, and who had grown 
quite familiar to me ; some of them would even come when I 
called them, and one, a doe, my favourite Daphné, my poor 
Daphné, would come and eat out of my hand. 

‘One spring I had missed her for a month, and was ready to 
weep for her as for a friend, when she reappeared with two little 
fawns. At first they were afraid of me, but seeing their mother 
caress me, they soon learned to do the same. 

* Alout this time we heard that the Duc d’Anjou had sent 
a governor into the province, and that he was called the Comte 
de Monsoreau. A week passed, during which every one spoke 
of the new governor. One morning the woods resounded with 
the sound of the horn, and the barking of dogs. J ran to the 
park, and arrived just in time to see Daphné, followed by her 
two fawns, pass like lightning, pursued by a pack of hounds. 
An instant after, mounted on a black. horse, M. de Monsoreau 
flew past me. 

“I cried out and implored pity for my poor protégée, but he 
did not hear me. Then I ran after him, hoping to meet either 
the count or some of his suite, and determined to implore them 
to stop this chase, which pierced my heart. I ran for some 
time without knowing where, for I had lost sight of both dogs 
and hunters. 

‘Soon I could not even hear them, so I sat down at the foot 
of a tree, and began to cry. I had been there about a quarter 
of an hour, when I heard the chase again. The noise came 
nearer and nearer, and, darting forward, I saw my pocr Daphné 
again ; she had but one fawn with her now, the other had given 
way through fatigue. She herself was growing visibly tired, and 
the distance between her and the hounds was less than when I 
saw her first. 

‘“As before, I exerted myself in vain to make myself 
heard. M. de Monsoreau saw nothing but the animal he was 
chasing ; he passed more quickly than ever, with his horn 
to his mouth, which he was sounding loudly. Behind him, two 


70 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


or three hunters animated the dogs with horn and voice. All 
passed me like a tempest, and disappeared in the forest. I was 
in despair, but I ran on once more, and followed a path which 
I knew led to the castle of Beaugé, belonging to the Duc 
d’Anjou, and which was about six miles from the castle of 
Méridor. It was not till I arrived there that I remembered 
that I was alone, and far from home. 

“T confess that a vague terror scized me, and that then only 
I thought of the imprudence and folly of my conduct. I fol- 
lowed the border of the lake, intending to ask the gardener 
(who, when I had come there with my father, had often given 
me bouquets) to take me home, when all at once I heard the 
sound of the chase again. I remained motionless, listening, 
and I forgot all else. Nearly at the same moment the doe re- 
appeared, coming out of the wood on the other side of the lake, 
but pursued so closely that she must be taken immediately. 
She was alone, her second fawn had fallen, but the sight of the 
water seemed to reanimate her, and she plunged in as if she 
would have come to me. At first she swam rapidly, and I 
looked at her with tears in my eyes, and almost as breathless as 
herself ; insensibly her strength failed her, while the dogs seemed 
to grow more and more earnest in their pursuit. Soon some 
of them reached her, and, stopped by their bites, she ceased to 
advance. At this moment, M. de Monsoreau appeared at the 
border of the lake, and jumped off his horse. Then I collected 
all my strength to cry for pity, with clasped hands. It seemed 
to me that he saw me, and I cried again. He heard me; for he 
looked at me; then he ran towards a boat, entered it, and ad- 
vanced rapidly towards the animal, who was fighting among the 
dogs. I did not doubt that, moved by my voice, he was hast- 
ening to bring her succour, when al! at once I saw him draw 
his hunting knife, and plunge it into the neck of the poor ani 
mal. The blood flowed out, reddening the water of the lake, 
while the poor doe uttered a doleful cry, beat the water with 
her feet, reared up, and then fell back dead. 

“I uttered a cry almost as doleful as hers, and fell fainting 
on the bank. When I came to myself again, I was in bed, in 
a room of the chateau of Beaugé, and my father, who had been 


sent for, standing by me. As it was nothing but over-excite- 


ment, the next morning I was able to return home ; although I 


suffered for three or four days. Then my father told me, that 
M. de Monsoreau, who had seen me. when I was carried to the 


WHO DIANA WAS. 71 


castle, had come to ask after me; he had been much grieved 
when he heard that he had been the involuntary cause of my 
accident, and begged to present his excuses to me, saying, that 
he could not be happy until he had his pardon from my own 
lips. 

“It would have been ridiculous to refuse to see him, so, in 
spite of my repugnance, I granted his request. He came the 
next day; I felt that my behaviour must have seemcd strange, 
and I excused it on the ground of my affection for Daphné. 
The count swore twenty times, that had he known I had any 
interest in his victim, he would have spared her with pleasure ; 
but his protestations did not convince me, nor remove the un- 
favourable impression I had formed of him. When he took 
leave, he asked my father’s permission to come again. He had 
been born in Spain and educated at Madrid, and it was an 
attraction for my father to talk over the place where he had 
been so long a prisoner. Besides, the count was of good family, 
deputy-governor of the province, and a favourite, it was said, of 
the Duc d’Anjou; my father had no motive for refusing his 
request, and it was granted. Alas! from this moment ceased, 
if not my happiness, at least my tranquillity. I soon perceived 
the impressicn I had made on the count; he began to come 
every day, and was full of attentions to my father, who showed 
the pleasure he took in his conversation, which was certainly 
that of a clever man. 

“One morning my father entered my room with an air graver 
than usual, but still evidently joyful. ‘ My child,’ said he, ‘ you 
always have said you did not wish to leave me.’ 

«Oh ! my father,’ cried I, ‘it is my dearest wish.’ 

“Well, my Diana,’ continued he, embracing me, “it only 
depends now on yourself to have your wish realised.’ I guessed 
what he was about to say, and grew dreadfully pale. 

“¢ Diana, my child, what is the matter ?’ cried he. 

““¢M. de Monsoreau, is it not?’ stammered I. ‘Well?’ said 
he, astonished. ‘Oh! never, my father, if you have any pity 
for your daughter, never——’ 

“« Diana, my love,’ said he, ‘it is not pity I have for you, 
but idolatry; you know it; take a week to reflect, and if 
then j 

“*Oh! no, no,’ cried I, ‘it is useless; not a day, not a 
minute! No, no, no! and I burst into tears. My father 
adored me, and he took me in his arms. and gave me his word 
that he would speak to me no more of this marriage, 





72 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“ Indeed, a month passed, during which I neither heard of 
nor saw M. de Monsoreau. One morning we received an in- 
vitation to a grand féte which M. de Monsoreau was to give to 
the Duc d’Anjou, who was about to visit the province whose 
name he bore. ‘To this was added a personal invitation from 
the prince, who had seen my father at court. My first impulse 
was to beg my father to refuse, but he feared to offend the 
prince, so we went. M. de Monsoreau received us as though 
nothing had passed, and behaved to me exactly as he did to 
the other ladies. 

“Not so the duke. As soon as he saw me, he fixed his 
eyes on me, and scarcely ever removed them. I felt ill at ease 
under these looks, and begged my father to go home early. 
Three days after M. de Monsoreau came to Meridor ; I saw 
him from the window, and shut myself up in my own room. 
When he was gone, my father said nothing to me, but I thought 
he looked gloomy. 

“Four days passed thus, when, as I was returning from a 
walk, the servants told me that M. de Monsoreau was with my 
father, who had asked for me several times, and had desired to 
be immediately informed of my return. Indeed, no sooner had 
I entered my room, than my father came to me. 

““¢ My child,’ said he, ‘a motive which I cannot explain to 
you, forces me to separate myself from you for some days. 
Do not question me, but be sure that it is an urgent one, since 
it determines me to be a week, a fortnight, perhaps a month, 
without seeing you.’ I trembled, I knew not why, but I 
fancied that the visits of M. de Monsoreau boded me no 
good. 

“Where am I to go, my father?’ asked I. 

_““To the chateau of Lude, to my sister, where you will be 
hidden from all eyes. You will go by night” ‘And do you 
not accompany me?’ ‘No, I must stay here, to ward off sus- 
picion ; even the servants must not know where you are going.’ 
‘But then, who will take me there? ‘’fwo men whom I can 
trust.” ‘Oh! mon Dieu! father,’ I cried. The baron em- 
braced me. ‘It is necessary, my child,’ said he. 

‘I knew my father’s love for me so well that I said no more, 
only I asked that Gertrude, my nurse, should accompany me, 
My father quitted me, telling me to get ready. 

“At eight o'clock (it was dark and cold, for it was the middle 
of winter) my father came for me. We descended quietly, 





WHO DIANA WAS. vis 


crossed the garden, when he opened himself a little door 
leading to the forest, and there we found a litter waiting, and 
two men ; my father spoke to them, then I got in, and Gertrude 
with me. 

““My father embraced me once more, and we set off. I was 
ignorant what danger menaced me, and forced me to quit the 
castle of Méridor. I did not dare to question my conductors, 
whom I did not know. We went along quietly, and the motion 
of the litter at last sent me to sleep, when I was awoke by 
Gertrude, who, seizing my arm, cried out, ‘Oh, mademoiselle, 
what is the matter ?’ 

“T passed my head through the curtains. We were sur- 
rounded by six masked cavaliers, and our men, who had tried 
to defend me, were disarmed. He who appeared the chief of 
the masked men approached me, and said, “ Re-assure yourself, 
mademoiselle, no harm will be done to you, but you must 
follow us.’ 

“¢Where? I asked. ‘To a place,’ he replied, ‘where, far 
from having anything to complain of, you will be treated like a 
queen. ‘Oh! my father! my father! I cried. ‘Listen, 
mademoiselle,’ said Gertrude, ‘I know the environs, and I am 
strong ; we may be able to escape.’ ‘You must do as you will 
with us, gentlemen,’ said I, ‘we are but two poor women, and 
cannot defend ourselves.’ One of the men then took the place 
of our conductor, and changed the direction of our litter.” 

Here Diana stopped a moment, as if overcome with emotion. 

“Oh, continue, madame, continue,” cried Bussy. 

It was impossible for Diana not to see the interest she in- 
spired in the young man ; it was shown in his voice, his gestures, 
his looks. She smiled, and went on. 

“We continued our journey for about three hours, then the 
litter stopped. I heard a door open, we went on, and I fancied 
we were crossing a draw-bridge. I was not wrong, for, on 
looking out of the litter, I saw that we were in the court-yard 
of acastle. What castle was it? We did not know. Often, 
during the route, we had tried to discover where we were, but 
we seemed to be in an endless forest. The door of our litter 
was opened, and the same man who had spoken to us before 
asked us to alight. I obeyed in silence. Two men from the 
castle had come to meet us with torches; they conducted us 
into a bedroom richly decorated, where a collation waited for 
us on a table sumptuously laid out. 


74 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“You are at home here, madame,’ said the same man, ‘and 
the room for your servant is adjoining. When you wish for 
anything, you have but to strike with the knocker on this door, 
and some one, who will be constantly in the ante-chamber, will 
wait on you.’ This apparent attention showed that we were 
guarded. Then the man bowed and went out, and we heard 
him lock the door behind him. 

“Gertrude and I were alone. She was about to speak, but I 
signed her to be silent, for perhaps some one was listening. 
The door of the room which had been shown us as Gertrude’s 
was open, and we went in to examine it. It was evidently the 
dressing-room to mine, and was also locked. We were prisoners. 
Gertrude approached me, and said in a low tone: ‘ Did demoi- 
selle remark that we only mounted five steps after leaving the 
court?’ ‘Yes,’ said I. ‘ Therefore we are on the ground floor,’ 
‘Doubtless.’ ‘So that——’ said she, pointing to the window. 
‘Ves, if they are not barred’ ‘And if mademoiselle had 
courage.’ ‘Oh! yes, I have.’ 

‘Gertrude then took a light, and approached the window. 
It opened easily, and was not barred; but we soon discovered 
the cause of this seeming negligence on the part of our captors. 
A lake lay below us, and we were guarded by ten feet of water 
better than by bolts and bars. But in looking out I discovered 
where we were. We were in the chateau of Beaugé, where 
they had brought me on the death of my poor Daphné. This 
castle belonged to the Duc d’Anjou, and a sudden light was 
thrown upon our capture. We shut the window again, and I 
threw myself, dressed, on my bed, while Gertrude slept in a 
chair by my side. Twenty times during the night I woke, a 
prey to sudden terror; but nothing justified it, excepting the 
place where I found myself, for all seemed asleep in the castle, 
and no noise but the cry of the birds interrupted the silence of 
the night. Day appeared, but only to confirm my conviction 
that flight was impossible without external aid ; and how could 
that reach us? About nine they came to take away the supper 
and bring breakfast. Gertrude questioned the servants, but 
they did not reply. Our morning passed in fruitless plans for 
escape, and yet we could see a boat fastened to the shore, with 
its Oars In 1t. Could we only have reached that, we might have 
been safe. 

“They brought us our dinner in the same way, put it down, 
and left us. In breaking my bread I found in it a little note 





WHO DIANA WAS. 75 


I opened it eagerly, and read, ‘A friend watches over you. 
To-morrow you shall have news of him and of your father.’ 
You can imagine my joy. The rest of the day passed in wait- 
ing and hoping. ‘The second night passed as quietly as the 
first ; then came the hour of breakfast, waited for impatiently, 
for I hoped to find another note. I was not wrong, it was as 
follows :—‘ The person who had you carried off will arrive at 
the castle of Beaugé at ten o’clock this evening ; but at nine, 
the friend who watches over you will be under your windows 
with a letter from your father, which will command the con- 
fidence you, perhaps, might not otherwise give. Burn this 
letter.’ 

“JT read and re-read this letter, then burned it as I was de- 
sired. The writing was unknown to me, and I did not know 
from whom it could have come. We lost ourselves in conjec- 
tures, and a hundred times during the morning we went to the 
window to see if we could see any one on the shores of the lake, 
but all was solitary. An hour after dinner, some one knocked 
at our door, and then entered. It was the man who had spoken 
tous before. I recognised his voice; he presented a letter 
to me. 

““Whom do you come from? asked I. ‘Will mademoi- 
selle take the trouble to read, and she will see.’ “ But I will 
not read this letter without knowing whom it comes from. 
“Mademoiselle can do as she pleases; my business is only to 
leave the letter,’ and putting it down, he went away. ‘What 
shall I do? asked I of Gertrude. ‘Read the letter, made- 
moiselle ; it is better to know what to expect.’ I opened and 
read.” 

Diana, at this moment, rose, opened a desk, and froma port- 
folio drew out the letter. Bussy glanced at the address and 
read, “To the beautiful Diana de Méridor.” 

Then looking at Diana, he said— 

“Tt is the Duc d’Anjou’s writing.” 

“Ah!” replied she, with a sigh, “then he did not deceive 
me.” 

Then, as Bussy hesitated to open the letter— 

“Read,” said she, “chance has initiated you into the most 
secret history of my life, and I wish to keep nothing from 
you.” 

Bussy obeyed and read— 

“An unhappy prince, whom your divine beauty has struck 


76 CHICOT, THE JESTER: 


to the heart, will come at ten o'clock to-night to apologise 

for his conduct towards you—conduct which he himself feels 

has no other excuse thanthe invincible love he entertains for you. 
‘“‘ FRANCOIS.” 


“Then this letter was really from the duke ?” asked Diana. 

“ Alas! yes; it is his writing and his seal.” 

Diana sighed. ‘Can he be less guilty than I thought ?” 
said she. 

“Who, the prince ?” 

“No, M. de Monsoreau.” 

“Continue, madame, and we will judge the prince and the 
count.” 

“This letter, which I had then no idea of not believing 
genuine, rendered still more precious to me the intervention 
of the unknown friend who offered me aid in the name of my 
father; I had no hope but in him. Night arrived soon, for it 
was in the month of January, and we had still four or five 
hours to wait for the appointed time. It was a fine frosty 
night; the heavens were brilliant with stars, and the crescent 
moon lighted the country with its silver beams. We had no 
means of knowing the time, but we sat anxiously watching at 
Gertrude’s window. At last we thought we saw figures moving 
among the trees, and then distinctly heard the neighing of a 
horse. 

“«Tt is our friends,’ said Gertrude. ‘ Or the prince,’ replied 
I. ‘The prince would not hide himself.’ This reflection re- 
assured me. A man now advanced alone: it seemed to us 
that he quitted another group who were left under the shade of 
the trees. As he advanced, my eyes made violent efforts to 
pierce the obscurity, and I thought I recognised first the tall 
figure, then the features, of M. de Monsoreau. I now feared 
almost as much the help as the danger. I remained mute, and 
drew back from the window. Arrived at the wall, he secured 
his boat, and I saw his head at our window. I could not 
repress a cry. 

“Ah, pardon,’ said he, “but I thought you expected me.’ 
“I expected some one, monsieur, but I did not know it was 
you.” A bitter smile passed over his face. ‘ Who else,’ said he, 
‘except her father, watches over the honour of Diana de Méri- 
dor?’ ‘You told me, monsieur, in your letter, that you came 
in my father’s name.’ ‘Yes, mademoiselle, and lest you should 





WHO DIANA WAS. Hdl 


doubt it, here is a note from the baron,’ and he gave me a 
’ ? re) 
paper. 1 read— 


““¢ My DEAR D1ana,—M. de Monsoreau can alone extricate 
you from your dangerous position, and this danger is immense. 
Trust, then, to him as to the best friend that Heaven can 
send to us. I will tell you later what from the bottom of my 
heart I wish you to do to acquit the debt we shall contract 
towards him. 

‘“©¢ Your father, who begs you to believe him, and to have 
pity on him, and on yourself, 

““ BARON DE MERIDOR.’ 


“ T knew nothing against M. de Monsoreau; my dishke to 
him was rather from instinct than reason. I had only to re- 
proach him with the death of a doe, a very light crime for a 
hunter. I then turned towards him. ‘Well?’ said he. ‘ Mon- 
sieur, I have read my father’s letter, it tells me you will take 
me from hence, but it does not tell me where you will take me.’ 
‘Where the baron waits for you.’ ‘And where is that ? ‘In the 
castle of Méridor.’ ‘Then I shall see my father? ‘In two hours.’ 

“¢ Ah! monsieur, if you speak truly——"_ I stopped. ‘The 
count waited for the end of my sentence. ‘Count on my gra- 
titude,’ said I, in a trembling tone, for I knew what he might 
expect from my gratitude. ‘Then, mademoiselle,’ said he, 
“you are ready to follow me? I looked at Gertrude. ‘ Reflect 
that each minute that passes is most precious,’ said he, ‘ I am 
nearly half-an-hour behind time now ; it will soon be ten o clock, 
and then the prince will be here.’ ‘Alas! yes.’ ‘Once he 
comes, I can do nothing for you but risk without hope that life 
which I now risk to save you.’ ‘Why did not my father come?’ 
I asked. ‘Your father is watched. ‘They know every step he 
fakes, “But you-—’ ‘Oh! I am different; I am the 
prince’s friend and confidant.’ ‘ Then if you are his friend——’ 
‘Yes, I betray him for you ; it is true, as I told you just now, I 
am risking my life to save you.’ ‘This seemed so true, that 
although I still felt rejiugnance, I could not express it. ‘I wait,’ 
said the count, ‘and stay; if you still doubt, Jook there.’ I 
looked, and saw on the opposite shore a body of cavaliers ad- 
vancing. ‘It is the duke and his suite,’ said he, ‘in five minutes 
it will be too late.’ 

“T tried to rise, but my limbs failed me. Gertrude raised 
me in her arms and gave me to the count. I shuddered at his 


78 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


touch, but he held me fast and placed me in the boat. Ger- 
trude followed without aid. Then I noticed that my veil had 
come off, and was floating on the water. I thought they would 
track us by it, and I cried, ‘ My veil; catch my veil.” The 
count looked at it and said, ‘No, no, better leave it.” And 
seizing the oars, he rowed with all his strength. We had just 
reached the bank when we saw the windows of my room lighted 
up. ‘Did I deceive you? Was it time? said M. de Monso- 
reau. ‘Oh! yes, yes,’ cried I, ‘you are really my saviour.’ 

“The lights seemed to be moving about from one room to 
the other. We heard voices, and a man entered who approached 
the open window, looked out, saw the floating veil, and uttered 
acry. ‘You see I did well to leave the veil,’ said the count, 
‘the prince believes that to escape him you threw yourself into 
the lake.’ I trembled at the man who had so instantaneously 
conceived this idea.” 


CHAPTER 2av- 
THE TREATY. 


THERE was a moment’s silence. Diana seemed almost over- 
come. Bussy was already vowing eternal vengeance against 
her enemies. She went on: 

““Scarcely had we touched the shore, when seven or eight 
men ran to us. They were the count’s people, and I thought 
I recognised among them the two men who had éscorted me 
when I left Méridor. A squire held two horses, a black one 
for the count and a white one for me. The count heiped me 
to mount, and then jumped on his own horse. Gertrude 
mounted en croupe behind one of the men, and we set off at 
full gallop. The count held the bridle of my horse. I said to 
him that I was a sufficiently good horsewoman to dispense with 
this, but he replied that the horse was inclined to. run away. 
When we had gone about ten minutes, I heard Gertrude’s voice 
calling to me, and turning, I saw that four of the men were 
taking her by a different path from that which we were follow- 
ing. ‘ Gertrude,” cried I, ‘why does she not come with me ?’ 
* It is an indispensable precaution,’ said the count; ‘if we are 
pursued we must leave two tracks, and they must be able to say 
in two places that they have seen a woman carried away by 


THE TREATY. 79 


men. There is then a chance that M.d’Anjou may take a 
wrong road, and go after your servant instead of you.’ Al- 
though specious, this reply did not satisfy me, but what could I 
do? Besides, the path which the count was following was the 
one which led to the chateau de Méridor. In a quarter of an 
hour, at the rate at which we are going, we should have been at 
the castle, when all at once, when we came to a cross road 
which I knew well, the count, instead of following the road to 
the castle, turned to the left, and took a road which led away 
from it. I cried out, and in spite of our rapid pace had already 
my hand on the pommel in order to jump off, when the count, 
seizing me round the waist, drew me off my horse, and placed 
me on the saddle before him. This action was so rapid that I 
had only time to utter a cry. M. de Monsoreau put his hand 
on my mouth, and said, ‘ Mademoiselle, I swear to you, on my 
honour, that I only act by your father’s orders, as I will prove 
to you at the first halt we make. If this proof appears to you 
insufficient, you shall then be free.’ ‘ But, monsieur,’ cried I, 
pushing away his hand, ‘ you told me you were taking me to my 
father ’ ‘Yes, I told you so, because I saw that you hesitated 
to follow me, and a moment’s more hesitation would have 
ruined us both, as you know. Now, do you wish to kill your 
father? Will you march straight to your dishonour? If so, I 
will take you to Méridor.’ ‘You spoke of a proof that you 
acted in the name of my father.’ ‘ Here it is,’ said the baron, 
giving me a letter, ‘keep it, and yead it at the first stoppage. 
If, when you have read it, you wish to return to Méridor, you 
are free ; but if you have any respect for your father’s wishes 
you will not.’ ‘Then, monsieur,’ I replied, ‘let us reach quickly 
our stopping-place, for I wish to know if you speak the truth.’ 
‘Remember, you follow me freely.’ ‘Yes, as freely as a young 
girl can who sees herseif placed between her father’s death and 
her own dishonour on the one hand, and on the other the obliga- 
tion to trust herself to the word of a man whom she hardly 
knows. Never mind, I follow you freely, monsieur, as you shall 
see if you will give me my horse again.’ The count called to 
one of his men to dismount and give me his horse. ‘The white 
mare cannot be far,’ said he to the man; ‘seek her in the 
forest and call her, she will come like a dog to her name or to 
a whistle ; you can rejoin us at La Chatre.’ I shuddered in 
spite of myself. La Chatre was ten leagues from Méridor, on 
the road to Paris. ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘1 accompany you, but 


80 CHIGOT; THE JESTEN 


at La Chatre we make our conditions.’ ‘ Mademoiselle, at La 
Chatre you shall give me your orders.’ At daybreak we arrived 
at La Chatre, but instead of entering the village we went by a 
cross-road to a lonely house. I stopped. ‘ Where are we going ?’ 
asked. ‘Mademoiselle,’ said the count, ‘I appeal to your- 
self. Can we, in flying from a prince next in power to the king, 
stop in an ordinary village inn, where the first person would 
denounce us? ‘ Well,’ said I, ‘go on.’ We resumed our way. 
We were expected, for a man had ridden on before to announce 
our arrival. A good fire burned in a decent room, and a bed was 
prepared. ‘This is your room,’ said the count, ‘I will await 
your orders.’ He went out and left me alone. My first thought 
was for my letter. Here it is, M. de Bussy ; read.” 
Bussy took the letter, and read : 


“ My BeLoveD D1ANA —As I do not doubt that, yielding to 
my prayer, you have followed the Comte de Monsoreau, he 
must have told you that you had the misfortune to please M. le 
Duc d’Anjou, and that it was this prince who had you forcibly 
carried away and taken to the castle of Beaugé; judge by this 
violence of what the prince is capable, and with what you were 
menaced. Your dishonour I could not survive ; but there is a 
means of escape—that of marrying our noble friend. Once 
Countess of Monsoreau, the count would protect his wife. My 
desire is, then, my darling daughter, that this marriage should 
take place as soon as possible, and if you consen’, I give you 
my paternal benediction, and pray God to bestow upon you 
every treasure of happiness. ‘ 

“Your father, who does not order, but entreats, 

‘BARON DE MERIDOR.” 


“Alas !” said Bussy, “if this letter be from your father, it is 
but too positive.” 

“Ido not doubt its being from him, and yet I read it three 
times before deciding. At last I called the count. He en- 
tered at once ; I had the letter in my hand. ‘Well, have you 
read it?’ said he. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Do you still doubt my 
devotion and respect?’ ‘This letter imposes belief on me, 
monsieur ; but in case I yield to my father’s wishes, what do 
you propose todo? ‘To take you to Paris, mademoiselle ; 
that is the easiest place to hide you.’ ‘And my father? ‘As 
soon as there is no longer danger of compromising you, you 


EGR MIKASA NG 81 


know he will come to you, wherever you are. ‘ Well, mon- 
sieur, I am ready to accept your protection on the conditions 
you impose.’ 

«JT impose nothing, mademoiselle,” answered he, ‘I simply 
offer you a method of safety” ‘Well, I will accept this safety 
on three conditions.’ ‘Speak, mademoiselle.’ ‘The first is, 
that Gertrude shall return to me.’ ‘She is here.’ ‘ The second 
is, that we travel separately to Paris.’ ‘ 1 was about to propose 
it to you.’ ‘And the third is, that our marriage, unless I my- 
self acknowledge some urgent necessity for it, shall only take 
place in presence of my father.’ ‘It is my earnest desire; I 
count on his benediction to draw upon us that of heaven.’ 

“‘T was in despair. I had hoped for some opposition to my 
wishes. ‘Now, mademoiselle,’ said he, ‘allow me to give you 
some advice.’ ‘I listen, monsieur.’ ‘Only to travel by night.’ 
‘Agreed.’ ‘To let me choose the route, and the places where 
you should stop. All my precautions will be taken with the 
sole aim of escaping the Duc d’Anjou.’ ‘I have no objection 
to make, monsieur.’ ‘ Lastly, at Paris, to occupy the lodging 
I shall prepare for ycu, however simple and out of the way it 
may be.’ ‘I onlyask to live hidden, monsieur, the more out of 
the way, the better it will suit me.’ ‘ Then, as we are agreed 
on all points, mademoiselle, it only remains for me to present 
to you my humble respects, and to send to you your femme de 
chambre.’ ‘On my side, monsieur, be sure that if you keep 
all your promises, I will keep mine.’ ‘ That.is all I ask,’ said 
the count, ‘and the promise makes me the happiest of men.’ 

“ With these words, he bowed and went out. Five minutes 
after, Gertrude entered. The joy of this good girl was great ; 
she had believed herself separated from me for ever. I told 
her all that had passed. As I finished, we heard the sound of 
a horse’s hoofs. Iran to the window ; it was M. de Monsoreau 
going away. He had fulfilled two articles of the treaty. We 
passed all the day in that little house, served by our hostess ; 
in the evening the chief of our escort appeared, and asked me 
if I were ready. I said yes, and five minutes after, we set off. 
At the door I found my white mare. We travelled all night, 
and stopped at daybreak. I calculated we had gone about 
thirty-five miles, but my horse had a very easy pace, and on 
leaving the house a fur cloak had been thrown over me to pro- 
tect me from the cold. It took us seven days to reach Paris in 
this manner, and I saw nothing of the count. We entered the 

6 


82 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 
city at night, and the first object I saw, after passing — 
the gate, was an immense monastery ; then we crossed the 
river, and in ten minutes we were in the Place de la Bastille. 
Then a man, who seemed to be waiting for us, advanced and 
said, ‘It is here.’ The chief of our escort jumped off his horse, 
and presented me his hand to dismount also. A door was open, 
and the staircase lighted by a lamp. ‘ Madame,’ said the man 
to me, ‘ you are now at home. At this door finishes the mis- 
sion I received ; may I flatter myself I have fulfilled it accord- 
ing to your wishes? ‘Yes, monsieur,’ said I, ‘I have only 
thanks to give you. Offer them in my name to all your men ; 
I would wish to reward them in a better manner, but I possess 
nothing.’ ‘Do not be uneasy about that, madame,’ said he, 
‘they are largely recompensed.’ 

“‘Then the little troop went away, and we went up the stairs 
of our house, and found ourselves in a corridor. Three doors 
were open; we entered the middle one, and found ourselves in 
the room where we now stand. On opening the door of my 
bedroom, to my great astonishment I found my own portrait 
there. It was one which had hung at Meridor, and the count 
had doubtless begged it of my father. I trembled at this new 
proof. that my father regarded me already as his wife. _ 

“Nothing was wanting in the rooms; a fire burned in the 
grate, and a supper was ready in the sitting-room. I saw with 
satisfaction that it was laid for one only, and yet when Gertrude 
said, ‘ Well, mademoiselle, you see the count keeps his pro- 
mises, —‘ Alas! yes,’ replied I with a sigh, for I should have 
preferred that by breaking his word he should have’ given me 
an excuse to break mine. After supper, we examined the 
house, but found no one in it. The next day Gertrude went 
out, and from her I learned that we were at the end of the Rue 
St. Antoine, near the Bastille. That evening, as we were sitting 
down to supper, some one knocked. I grew pale. 

““Ifit be the count? asked Gertrude. ‘You must open to 
him; he has kept his promises, and I must keep mine.’ A 
moment after he entered. ‘Well, madame,’ said he, ‘have I 
kept my word? ‘Yes, monsieur, and I thank you for it.’ 
‘Then you will receive me? said he, with an ironical smile. 
‘Enter, monsieur,’ said I, ‘have you any news? ‘ Of what, 
madame ?’ ‘Of my father, firstly ? ‘I have not been to Méri- 
dor, and have not seen the baron.’ ‘Then of Beaugé, and the 
Duc d’Anjou?’ ‘I have been to Beaugé, and have spoken to 





THE TREATY. 83 


the duke.’ ‘What does he say? ‘He appears to doubt.’ 
‘Of what? ‘Of your death.’ ‘But you confirmed it? ‘I 
did all I could.’ ‘Where is the duke? I then asked. ‘He 
returned to Paris yesterday. One does not like to stay in a 
place where one has the death of a woman to reproach one’s 
self with.’ ‘Have you seen him in Paris? ‘I have just left 
him.’ ‘Did he speak of me?’ ‘I did not give him time; I 
spoke incessantly of a promise which he made to me.’ ‘What 
isit?? ‘He promised me asa reward for services rendered to 
him, to make me chief huntsman.’ ‘ Ah, yes,’ said I, thinking 
of my poor Daphné ; ‘you are a terrible hunter, I know.’ ‘It 
is not for that reason I obtain it, but the duke dare not be un- 
grateful to me.’ 

“Can I write to my father? said I, ‘Doubtless; but your 
letters may be intercepted.’ ‘Am I forbidden to go out? 
‘Nothing is forbidden ; but I beg to point out to you that you 
may be followed.’ ‘At least I must go on Sunday to mass.’ 
‘It would be better not ; but if you do, I advise you to go to 
St. Catherine.’ ‘Where is that?’ ‘Just opposite you.’ There 
was a silence. Then I said, ‘When shall I see you again, 
monsieur? ‘When I have your permission to come.’ ‘Do 
you need it? ‘Certainly, as yet I am a stranger to you.’ 
‘Monsieur,’ said I, half frightened at this unnatural submission, 
“you can return when you like, or when you think you have 
anything important to communicate.’ 

“Thanks, madame,’ said he, ‘I will use your permission, but 
not abuse it. I know you do not love me, and I will not abuse 
a situation which forces you to receive me. You will, I trust, 
gradually become accustomed to the thought, and be willing, 
when the moment shall arrive, to become my wife.’ ‘ Monsieur 
said I, ‘I appreciate your delicacy and frankness. I will use 
the same frankness. [I had a prejudice against you, which I 
trust that time will cure.’ ‘ Permit me,’ said he, ‘to partake this 
anticipation and live in the hopes of that happymoment.’ Then 
bowing respectfully, he went out.” 


CHAP EER, Xv. 
THE MARRIAGE. 


* A STRANGE man,” said Bussy. 
“Yes, is he not, monsieur? When he was gone I felt sadder 
6—2 


84 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


and more frightened than ever. This icy respect, this ironical 
obedience, this repressed passion, which now and then showed 
itself in his voice, frightened me more than a will firmly ex- 
pressed, and which I could have opposed, would have done. 
The next day was Sunday; I had never in my life missed 
divine service, so I took a thick veil and went to St. Catherine’s, 
followed by Gertrude, and no one seemed to remark us. 

“The next day the count came to announce to me that the 
duc had fulfilled his promise, and had obtained for him the 
place of chief huntsman, which had been promised to M. de 
St. Luc. A week passed thus: the count came twice to see me, 
and always preserved the same cold and submissive manner. 
The next Sunday I went again to the church. Imprudently, in 
the midst of my prayers, I raised my veil. I was praying ear- 
nestly for my father, when Gertrude touched me on the arm. I 
raised my head, and saw with terror M. le Duc d’Anjou leaning 
against the column, and looking earnestly at me. A man stood 
by him.” 

“Tt was Aurilly,” said Bussy. 

* Ves, that was the name that Gertrude told me afterwards. 
I drew my veil quickly over my face, but it was too late: he 
had seen me, and if he had not recognised me, at least my re- 
semblance to her whom he believed dead had struck him. 
Uneasy, I left the church, but found him standing at the door, 
and he offered to me the holy water as I passed. I feigned not 
to see him, and went on. We soon discovered that we were 
followed. Had I known anything of Paris, I would have at- 
tempted to lead them wrong, but I knew no more of it than 
from the church to the house, nor did I know any one of whom 
I could ask a quarter of an hour’s hospitality ; not a friend, and 
only one protector, whom I feared more than an enemy.” 

“Oh! mon Dieu!” cried Bussy, “why did not Heaven, or 
chance, throw me sooner in your path ?” 

Diana thanked the young man with a look. 

“But pray go on,” said Bussy, “I interrupt you, and yet I 
am dying to hear more.” 

“That evening M. de Monsoreau came. I did not know 
poe to tell him of what had happened, but he began, ‘ You 
asked me if you could go to mass, and I told you you were 
eee pees Be better not to do so. You would not 
elty ad oe en as morning to St. Catherine s, and_ by 

prince was there and saw you.’ ‘It is true, mon- 


THE MARRIAGE. &s 


sieur ; but I do not know if he recognised me.’ ‘ Your face 
struck him; your resemblance to the woman he regrets ap- 
peared to him extraordinary, he followed you home, and made 
inquiries, but learned nothing, for no one knew anything.’ 
‘Mon Dieu? cried I. ‘The duke is persevering,’ said he. 
‘Oh! he will forget me, I hope.’ 

“No one forgets you who has once seen you,’ said he. ‘I 
did all I could to forget you, and I have not succeeded.’ And 
the first passionate look that I had seen flashed from the eyes 
of the count. I was more terrified by it than I had been by 
the sight of the prince. I remained mute. ‘What will you 
do?’ asked the count. ‘Can I not change my abode—go to 
the other end of Paris, or, better still, return to Anjou? ‘It 
will be useless ; the duke is a terrible bloodhound, and now he 
is on your track, he will follow you wherever you go till he finds 
you.’ ‘Oh! mon Dieu! you frighten me.’ ‘TI tell you the 
simple truth.’ ‘Then what do you advise me to do?’ ‘ Alas ? 
said he, with a bitter irony. “I am a man of poor imagination. 
I had formed a plan, but it does not suit you; I can find no 
other.’ ‘But the danger is perhaps less pressing than you 
imagine.’ 

“¢ The future will show us, madame,’ said the count, rising. 
‘I can but add that the Comtesse de Monsoreau would have 
the less to fear from the prince, as my new post places me 
under the direct protection of the court.’ I only replied by a 
sigh. He smiled bitterly, and as he went down stairs I heard 
him giving vent to oaths. ‘The next day, when Gertrude went 
out, she was accosted by a young man whom she recognised as 
the one who had accompanied the prince, but she remained 
obstinately silent to all his questions. This meeting inspired 
me with profound terror ; I feared that M. de Monsoreau would 
not come, and that they would invade the house in his absence. 
I sent for him, and he came at once. I told him all about the 
young man, whom I described. 

«¢Tt was Aurilly ; he said, ‘and what did Gertrude answer?’ 
“She did not answer at all.’ ‘She was wrong,’ said he. ‘Why?’ 
‘We must gain time.’ ‘Time? ‘Yes, I am now dependent 
on the Duc d’Anjou; in a fortnight, in a week perhaps, he will 
be in my power. We must deceive him to get him to wait.’ 
‘Mon Dieu! ‘Certainly ; hope will make him patient. A 
complete refusal will push him to extremities.’ ‘ Monsieur, 
write to my father; he will throw himself at the feet of the 


86 CHICOT, THL JLSTER. 


king. He will have pity on an old man.’ ‘That is according 
to the king’s humour, and whether he be for the time friendly 
or hostile to the duke. Besides, it would take six days for a 
messenger to reach your father, and six days for him to come 
here. In twelve days, if we do not stop him, the duke will have 
done all he can do.” 

““* And how to stop him?’ I cried. A smile passed over the 
lips of M. de Monsoreau at this first appeal to his protection. 
‘Madame,’ said he, ‘will you permit me to pass two or three 
hours in your room? JI may be seen going out, and would 
rather wait till dark.’ I signed him to sit down. We conversed; 
he was cléver and had travelled much, and at the end of the 
time I understood, better than I had ever done before, the in- 
fluence he had obtained over my father. When it grew dark, 
he rose and took leave. Gertrude and I then approached the 
window, and could distinctly see two men examining the house. 
The next day, Gertrude, when she went out, found the same 
young man in the same place. He spoke to her again, and this 
time she answered him. On the following day she told him 
that I was the widow of a counsellor, who, being poor, lived 
in retirement. He tried to learn more, but could extract nothing 
further from her. The next day, Aurilly, who seemed to doubt 
her story, spoke of Anjou, of Beaugé, and Méridor. Gertrude 
declared these names to be perfectly unknown to her. Then 
he avowed that he came from the Duc d’Anjou, who had seen 
and fallen in love with me; then came magnificent offers for 
both of us, for her, if she would introduce the prince into my 
house, and for me, if I would receive him. 

“ \every evening M. de Monsoreau came, to hear what was 
going on, and remained from eight o’clock to midnight, and it 
was evident that his anxiety was great. On Saturday evening 
he arrived pale and agitated. 

“*You must promise to receive the duke on ‘Tuesday or 
Wednesday,’ said he. ‘ Promise! and why? ‘ Because he has 
made up his mind to come in, and he is just now on the best 
terms with the king ‘we have nothing to expect from him.” ‘But 
before then will anything happen to help me?’ ‘I hope so. I 
expect from day to day the event which is to place the duke in 
my power. But to-morrow I must leave you, and must go to 
plea ‘Must you ?’ cried I with a mixture of joy and 
ry ao » es, , nave there a rendezvous which is indispensable 

& about the event of which I speak.’ ‘ But if you fail, 


THE MARRIAGE. 87 


what are we to do?” ‘What can I do against a prince, if I 
have no right to protect you, but yield to bad fortune ?” 

“¢ Oh! my father! my father! cried 1. The count looked 
at me. ‘What have you to reproach me with?’ said he. 
‘Nothing, on the contrary.’ ‘Have I not been a devcted 
friend, and as respectful as a brother?’ ‘You have behaved 
throughout like a gallant man.’ ‘Had I not your promise ? 
‘Yes.’ ‘Iave I once recalled it to your? ‘No.’ ‘And yet 
you prefer to be the mistress of the duke, to being my wife?’ 
‘I do not say so, monsieur.’ ‘Then decide.’ ‘I have decided.’ 
“To be Countess of Monsoreau ?? ‘Rather than mistress of the 
duke.’ ‘The alternative is flattering. But, meanwhile, let 
Gertrude gain time until Tuesday.’ The next day Gertrude 
went out, but did not meet Aurilly. We felt more frightened 
at his absence than we had done at his presence. Night came, 
and we were full of terror. We were alone and feeble, and for 
the first time I felt my injustice to the count.” 

“Oh! madame !” cried Bussy, “ do not be in a hurry to think 
so, his conduct conceals some mystery, I believe.” 

** All was quiet,” continued Diana, ‘until eleven o’cloadk. 
Then five men came out of the Rue St. Antoine, and hid them- 
selves by the Hotel des Tournelles. We began to tremble ; were 
they there for us? However, they remained quiet, and a quarter 
of an hour passed; then we saw two other men approach. By 
the moonlight Gertrude recognised Aurilly. ‘Alas ! mademoi- 
selle ; it is they,’ cried she. ‘Yes,’ cried I, trembling, ‘and the 
five others are to help them.’ ‘ But they must force the door,’ 
said Gertrude, ‘ perhaps the neighbours will come and help us.’ 
‘Oh! no, they do not know us, and they will not fight against 
the duke. Alas! Gertrude, I fear we have no real defender 
but the count.’ ‘Well! then, why do you always refuse to 
marry him?’ I sighed.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 
THE MARRIAGE. 
“THE two men approached the window. We gently opened it 


a little way, ar.d heard one say, ‘ Are you sure it is here?’ ‘ Yes, 
monseigneur, quite sure,’ said the other. ‘It is the filth house 


88 GHICOT, THE JESTER. 


from the corner of the Rue St. Paul.’ ‘And you are sure of 
the key?” ‘I took the pattern of the lock.’ I seized Gertrude’s 
arm in terror. ‘And once inside,’ he went on, ‘the servant will 
admit us; your highness has in your pocket a golden key as 
good as this one.’ ‘ Open, then.’ We heard the key turn in 
the lock, but all at once the ambushed men rushed forward, 
crying, ‘A mort! & mort! I could not understand this, only 
I saw that unexpected help hac come to us, and I fell on my 
knees, thanking Heaven. But the prince had only to name 
himself, when every sword went back into the scabbarc, and 
every foot drew back.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Bussy, “it was for me they came, not for 
the prince.” 

‘< However, this attack caused the prince to retire, and the 
five gentlemen went back to their hiding-place. It was evident 
that the danger was over for that night, but we were too unquiet 
to go to bed. Soon we saw a man on horseback appear, and 
then the five gentlemen immediately rushed en him. You 
know the rest, as the gentleman was yourself.” 

‘On the contrary, madame, I know only that I fought and 
then fainted.” 

“Tt is useless to say,” continued Diana, with a blush, “the 
interest that we took in the combat so unequal, but so valiantly 
sustained. Each blow drew from us a shudder, a cry, and a 
prayer. We saw your horse fall, and we thought you lost, but 
it was not so; the brave Bussy merited his reputation. At last, 
surrounded, menaced on all sides, you retreated lke a lion, 
facing your foes, and came to lean against our Goor ; the same 
idea came to both of us, to go down and open to you, and we 
ran towards the staircase; but we had barricaded the door, and 
it took us some minutes to move the furniture, and as we ar- 
rived on the stairs, we heard the door shut. We stopped, and 
looked at each other, wondering who had entered. Soon we 
heard steps, and a man appeared, who tottered, threw up his 
arms, and fell on the first step. It was evident that he was not 
pursued, but had put the door, so luckily left open by the 
duke, between him and his adversaries. In any case we had 
nothing to fear; it was he who needed our help. Gertrude 
ran and fetched a lamp, and we found you had fainted, and 
carried you to the bed. Gertrude had heard of a wonderful 
cure made by a young doctor in the Rue Beautrellis, and she 
offered to go and fetch him. ‘ But,’ said I, ‘he might betray 


Ce 


THE MARRIAGE. 89 


us.’ ‘I will take precautions,’ said she. She took money and 
the key, and I remained alone near you, and— praying for 
you.” 

“ Alas!” said Bussy, “I did not know all my happiness, 
madame.” 

“In a quarter of an hour Gertrude returned, bringing the 
young doctor with his eyes bandaged.” 

“Yes, it was at that moment I recovered my senses and saw 
your portrait, and thought I saw you enter,” said Bussy. 

“J did so; my anxiety was stronger than my prudence. 
The doctor examined your wound and answered for your life.” 

“ All that remained in my mind,” said Bussy, “ ike a dream, 
and yet something told me,” added he, laying his hand upon 
his heart, ‘‘ that it was real.” 

“When the surgeon had dressed your wound, he drew from 
his pocket a little bottle containing a red liquor, of which he 
put some drops on your lips. He told me it was to counteract 
the fever and produce sleep, and said that the only thing then 
was to keep you quiet. Gertrude then bandaged his eyes again, 
and took him back to the Rue Beautrellis, but she fancied he 
counted the steps.” 

“He did so, madame.” 

“This supposition frightened us. We feared he would betray 
us, and we wished to get rid of every trace of the hospitality 
we had shown you. I gathered up my courage; it was two 
o'clock, and the streets were deserted ; Gertrude was strong, 
and I aided her, and between us we carried ycu to the Temple. 
Luckily we met no one, but when we returned, I fainted with 
emotion.” 

“Oh! madame!” cried Bussy, ‘‘ how can I ever repay you for 
what you have done for me ?” 

There was a moment’s silence, and they heard the clock of 
St. Catherine’s church strike. ‘‘I'wo o'clock,” cried Diana, 
“and you here!” 

“‘Oh ! madame, do not send me away without telling me all. 
Suppose that God had given youa brother, and tell this brother 
what he can do for his sister.” 

“ Alas ! nothing now ; it is too late.” 

“What happened the nexi day ?” said Bussy ; “ what did you 
do on that day when I thought constantly of you, without feel- 
ing sure if you were not a vision of my delirium ?” 

- “During that day, Gertrude went out, and met Aurilly. He 


go GHICGOL THEs [ESTE T. 


was more pressing than ever. He said nothing of the night 
before, but asked for an interview for his master. Gertrude 
appeared to consent, but she asked until the Wednesday—that is 
to-day—to decide. Aurilly promised that his master would 
wait until then. That evening, M. de Monsoreau returned. 
We told him all, except about you. 

‘6 Ves,’ said he, ‘I heard of all this Then he has a key.’ 
‘Can we not change the lock? ‘He will get another key.’ 
‘Put on bolts.’ ‘He will come with ten men and force the 
door.’ ‘But the event which was to give you full power over 
him ?” ‘Is postponed indefinitely’ I stood in despair. ‘ Mon- 
sieur,’ said I, ‘the duke has promised to wait till Wednesday ; 
I ask you to wait till Tuesday.’ ‘Tuesday evening I will be 
here, madame,’ and without another word he went out. I fol- 
lowed him with my eyes, but instead of going away, he stood 
in the corner by the Hotel des Tournelles, and seemed deter- 
mined to watch me all night. Every proof of devotion he gave 
me was like a knife in my heart. The two days passed rapidly, 
but what I suffered it is impossible to describe. When Tuesday 
evening came, I felt exhausted, and all emotion seemed dead 
within me. 

“Gertrude went to the window. ‘Madame,’ cried she, ‘four 
men! I see fourmen! They approach, they open the door— 
they enter! It is, doubtless, the duke and his followers’ For an 
answer, I drew my poniard, and placed it near me on the table, 
‘See, said I. An instant after, Gertrude returned, ‘It is the 
count,’ said she. He entered. ‘Gertrude tells me,’ said he, 
‘that you took me for the duke, and were ready to kill yourself.’ 
It was the first time I had ever seen him moved. ‘ Gertrude 
was wrong to tell you,’ saidI. ‘ You know that I am not alone.’ 
“Gertrude saw four men.’ ‘ You know who they are?’ ‘I pre- 
sume one is a priest, and the others witnesses.’ ‘Then, you are 
ready to become my wife? ‘It was so agreed; only I stipu- 
lated that except in an urgent case, I would only marry you in 
the presence of my father.’ ‘I remember; but do you not think 
the case urgent?’ ‘Yes, and the priest may marry us, but, 
until I have seen my father, I will be your wife onlv in name.’ 

“The count frowned, and bit his lips. ‘I do not wish to 
coerce you,’ said he; ‘you are free; but look here.’ I went to 
the window, and saw a man wrapped in a cloak, who seemed 
trying to get into the house.” 


“Oh! mon Dieu!” cried Bussy: “and this was yesterday 


THE MARRIAGE. oI 


*VYes about nine o'clock. Presently, another man, with a 
lantern, joined him. I thought it was the duke and his fol- 
lowers. 

“¢¢ Now,’ said M. de Monsoreau, ‘shall I go or stay?’ I 
hesitated a moment, in spite of my father’s letter and of my 
given word, but those two men there ‘3 

“ Oh! unhappy that Iam,” cried Bussy, “it was I and Rémy, 
the young doctor.” 

“ You !” cried Diana. 

“ Yes, 1; I, who, more and more convinced of the reality 
of my dream, sought for the house where I had been, and the 
woman, or rather angel, who had appeared to me. Oh! Iam 
unfortunate. Then,” continued he, after a pause, “‘ you are 
his wife ?” 

“Since yesterday.” 

There was a fresh silence. 

“ But,” said Diana at last, “how did you enter this 
house ?” 

Bussy silently showed his key. 

‘A key! where did you get it?” 

“ Had not Gertrude promised the prince to enter to-night? 
He had seen M. de Monsoreau here, and also myself, and 
fearing a snare, sent me to find out.” 

- And you accepted this mission ?” 

“Tt was my only method of penetrating to you. Will you 
reproach me for having sought at once the greatest joy and the 
greatest grief of my life?” 

“Ves, for it is better that you should see me no more, and 
forget me.” 

“No, madame ; God has brought me to you, to deliver you 
from the toils in which your enemies have taken you. I vow 
my life to you. You wish for news of your father °” 

“Oh, yes! for, in truth, I know not what, has become of 
him.” 

“Well, I charge myself with finding out ; only think of him 
who henceforth will live but for you.” 

“ But this key ?” 

“This key I restore to you, for I will receive it only from 
your hands ; but I pledge you my word as a gentleman, that never 
sister could trust in a brother more devoted and respectful.” 

“T trust to the word of the brave Bussy. Here, monsieur,” 
and she gave back the key. 





92 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


‘“ Madame, in a fortnight we will know more ;” and, saluting 
Diana with a respect mingled with love and sadness, Bussy took 
leave, Diana listened to his retreating steps with tears in her 
eyes. 


CHAPTER XVIL 


HOW HENRI III. TRAVELLED, AND HOW LONG IT TOOK HIM 
TO. GET FROM PARIS TO FONTAINEBLEAU. 


THE sun, which shone four or five hours after the events which 
we have just recorded had taken place, saw, by his pale light, 
Henri III. set off for Fontainebleau, where a grand chase was 
projected. A crowd of gentlemen, mounted on good horses 
and wrapped in their fur cloaks, then a number of pages, after 
them lackeys, and then Swiss, followed the royal litter. This 
litter, drawn by eight mules richly caparisoned, was a large 
machine, about fifteen feet long and eight wide, on four wheels, 
furnished inside with cushions and curtains of silk brocade. In 
difficult places they substituted for the mules an indefinite 
number of oxen. 

This machine contained Henri III., his doctor, and his chap- 
lain, Chicot, four of the king’s favourites, a pair of large dogs, 
and a basket of little ones, which the king held on his knees, 
and which was suspended from his neck by a golden chain. 
From the roof hung a gilded cage containing turtle doves, quite 
white, with a black ring round their necks. Sometimes the col- 
lection was completed by the presence of two or three apes. 
Thus this litter was commonly termed the Noah’s Ark. 

_Quelus and Maugiron employed themselves with plaiting 
ribbons, a favourite diversion of that time ; and Chicot amused 
himself by making anagrams on the names of all the courtiers. 
Just as they passed the Place Maubert, Chicot rushed out of 
the litter, and went to kneel down before a house of good ap- 
pearance. 

“Oh! cried the king, “if you kneel, let it be before the 
crucifix in the middle of the street, and not before the house. 
What do you mean by it ?” 

But Chicot, without attending, cried out in a loud voice : 

“Mon Dieu! I recognise it, I shall always recognise it—the 


HENRI Ilf. TRAVELS TO FONTAINEBLEAU, 93 


house where I suffered! I have never prayed for vengeance 
on M. de Mayenne, author of my martyrdom, nor on Nicholas 
David, his instrument. No, Chicot is patient, Chicot can wait, 
although it is now six years that this debt has been running on, 
and in seven years the interest is doubled. May, then, my 
patience last another year, so that instead of fifty blows of a 
stirrup-leather which I received in this house by the orders of 
this assassin of a Lorraine prince, and which drew a pint of 
blood, I may owe a hundred blows and two pints of blood! 
Amen, so be it !” 

“* Amen !” said the king. 

Chicot then returned to the litter, amidst the wondering looks 
of the spectators. 

“Why, Chicot, what does all this mean ?” said the king. 

“Sire, it means that Chicot is like the fox—that he licks the 
stones where his blood fell, until against those very stones he 
crushes the heads of those who spilt it.” 

* Explain yourself.” 

“Sire, 1n that house lived a girl whom Chicot loved, a good 
and charming creature, and a lady. One evening when he went 
to see her, a certain prince, who had also fallen in love with 
her, had him seized and beaten, so that Chicot was forced to 
jump cut of window ; and as it was a miracle that he was not 
killed, each time he passes the house he kneels down and 
thanks God for his escape.’ 

‘You were, then, well beaten, my poor Chicot 2” 

“Yes, sire, and yet notas much as I wished.” 

“Why—for your sins P” 

“No, for those of M. de Mayenne.” 

“Oh! I understand; your intention is to renderto Cesar 

** Not to Czesar, sire—Ceesar 1s the great general, the valiant 
warrior, the eldest brother, who wishes to be king of France. 
No, you must settle with him; pay your debts, and I will pay 
mine.” 

Henri did not like to hear his cousin of Guise spoken of, and 
this made him serious. It was three o'clock in the afternoon 
when they arrived at Juvisy and the great hotel of the “ Cour 
de France.” 

Chicot, looking out of the litter, saw at the door of the hotel 
several men wrapped in cloaks. In the midst of them was a 
short stout person, whose large hat almost covered his face. 
They went in quickly on seeing the litter, but not before the 





04 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


look of this person had had time to excite Chicot’s attention. 
Therefore he jumped out, and asking a page for his horse, which 
was being led, let the royal litter go on to Essones, where the 
king was to sleep, while he remained behind, and, cautiously 
peeping in through a window, saw the men whom he had no- 
ticed sitting inside. He then entered the hotel, went into the 
opposite room, asked for a bottle of, wine, and placed himself 
so that, although he could not be seen, no one could pass by 
without his seeing them. ; 

“ Ah !” said he to himself, “shall I be forced to make my 
payment sooner than I expected ?” 

Soon Chicot found that by keeping the door open he could 
both see into the room and hear what was said. 

“‘Gentlemen,” said the short fat man to his companions, “ I 
think it is time to set out; the last lackey of the cortege is out 
of sight, and I believe now that the road is safe.” 

“Perfectly so, monseigneur,” replied a voice which made 
Chicot tremble, and which came from the mouth of a person 
as tall as the other was short, as pale as he was red, and as ob- 
sequious as he was arrogant. 

‘““Ah! M. Nicolas,” said Chicot, “tu quoque, that is good. 
Tt will be odd if I let you slip this time !” 

Then the short man came out, paid the bill, and, followed by 
the others, took the road to Paris. Chicot followed them at a 
distance. They entered by the Porte St. Antoine, and entered 
the Hotel Guise. Chicot waited outside a full hour, in spite of 
cold and hunger. At last the door reopened, but, instead of 
seven cavaliers wrapped in their cloaks, seven monks came out, 
with their hoods over their faces, and carrying immense rosaries. 
Chel: S said Chicot, “is, then, the Hétel Guise so embalmed 
In sanctity that wolves change into lambs only by entering it ? 
This becomes more and more interesting.” 

And he followed the monks as he had followed the cavaliers, 
for he believed them to be the same. 

The monks passed over the bridge of Nétre Dame, crossed 
the city and the petit pont, and went up the Rue St. Genevitve. 

“Oh !” said Chicot, as he passed the house where he had 
kneeled in the morning, “are we returning to Fontainebleau ? 
In that case I have made a round.” 

However, the monks stopped at the door of the Abbey of 


St. Genevieve, in the porch of which stood another monk, who 
examined every one’s hand, 


HENRI (ll. T. RAVELS TO FONTAINEBLEAU. 95 


“Why,” said Chicot, “it seems that to be admitted to-night 
into the abbey one must have clean hands !” 

Then he saw, with astonishment, monks appear from every 
street leading to the abbey, some alone, some walking in pairs, 
ut all coming to the abbey. 

“Ah!” said Chicot, “is there a general chapter at the abbey 
to-night? I have never seen one, and I should like it much.” 

The monks entered, showing their hands, or something in 
them, and passed on. 

““T should like to go also,” thought Chicot ; “but for that 
I want two things—a monk’s robe, for I see no layman here, 
and then this mysterious thing which they show to the porter, 
for certainly they show something. Ah, brother Gorenflot, if 
you were here !” 

The monks continued to arrive, till it seemed as if half Paris 
had taken the frock. 

“There must be something extraordinary to-night,” thought 
Chicot. ‘I will go and find Gorenflot at the Corne d’Abond- 
ance ; he will be at supper.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 
BROTHER GORENFLOT. 


To the beautiful day had succeeded a beautiful evening, only, 
as the day had been cold, the evening was still colder. It was 
one of those frosts which make the lights in the windows of an 
hotel look doubly tempting. Chicot first entered the dining- 
room, and looked around him, but not finding there the man 
he sovght for, went familiarly down to the kitchen. The master 
of the establishment was superintending a frying-pan full of 
whitings. At the sound of Chicot’s step he turned. 

“Ah! it is you, monsieur,” said he, “good-evening, and a 
good appetite to you.” 

“Thanks for the wish, but you know I cannot bear to eat 
alone.” 

“Tf necessary, monsieur, I will sup with you.” 

“Thanks, my dear host, but though I know you to be an ex- 
cellent companion, I seek for some one else.” 

“ Brother Gorenflot, perhaps °?” 


9) CHICOT, THE SESTLE ie 


“ Tust so; has he begun supper ?” 

“No, not yet ; but you must make haste nevertheless, for in 
five minutes he will have finished.” 

““ Monsieur !” cried Chicot, striking his head. 

“ Monsieur, it is Friday, and the beginning of Lent” 

“Well, and what then?” said Chicot, who did not hold a 
high opinion of Gorenflot’s religious austerity 

Boutromet shrugged his shoulders. ‘‘ Decidedly, something 
must be wrong,” said Chico‘, “five minutes for Gorenflot’s 
supper! Iam destined to see wonders to-day.” 

Chicot then advanced towards a small private room, pushed 
open the door, and saw within the worthy monk, who was turn. 
ing negligently on his plate a small portion of spinach, which 
he tried to render more savoury by the introduction into it of 
some cheese. Brother Gorenflot was about thirty-eight years 
of age and five feet high. However, what he wanted in height, 
he made up in breadth, measuring nearly three feet in diameter 
from shoulder to shoulder, which, as every one knows, 1s equal 
to nine feet of circumference. Between these Herculean 
shoulders rose a neck of which the muscles stood out like 
cords. Unluckily this neck partook of the same proportions ; 
it was short and thick, which at any great emotion might render 
Brother Gorenflot lable to apoplexy. But knowing this, per- 
haps, he never gave way to emotions, and was seldom so dis- 
turbed as he was when Chicot entered his room. 

“ Ah, my friend ! what are you doing ?” cried Chicot, looking 
at the vegetables and at a glass filled with water just coloured 
with a few drops of wine. } 

“You see, my brother, I sup,” replied Gorenflot in a power- 
ful voice. 

“You call that supper, Gorenflot! Herbs and cheese 2” 

‘“‘We are in the beginning of Lent, brother; we must think 
of our souls,” replied Gorenflot, raising his eyes to heaven. 

Chicot looked astounded ; he had so often seen Gorenflot 
feast in a different manner during Lent. 

“Our souls!” said he ; “and what the devil have herbs and 
water to do with them 2” 

“We are forbidden to eat meat on Wednesdays and Fri- 
days.” 

“ But when did you breakfast ?” 

s I have not breakfasted, my brother,” said the monk, 

Not breakfasted! Then what have you done ?” 


BROTHER GORENFLOT. 97 


* Composed a discourse,” said Gorenflot proudly. 

“ A discourse, and what for ?” 

“To deliver this evening at the abbey.” 

“That is odd.” 

“ And I must be quick and go there, or perhaps my audience 
will grow impatient.” 

Chicot thought of the infinite number of monks he had seen 
going to the abbey, and wondered why Gorenflot, whom cer- 
tainly he had never thought eloquent, had been chosen to preach 
berore M. de Mayenne and the numerous assemblage. “ When 
are you to preach 2?” said he. 

* At half-past nine.” 

“Good; it is still a quarter to nine, you can give me a few 
minutes. Ventre de biche! we have not dined together for a 
week.” P 

“Tt is not our fault, but I know that your duties keep you 
near our King Henry III., while my duties fill up my time.” 

“Ves, but it seems to me that is so much the more reason 
why we should be merry when we do meet.” 

“Ves, I am merry,” said Gorenflot, with a piteous look, “ but 
still I must leave you.” 

** At least, finish your supper.” 

Gorenflot looked at the spinach, and sighed, then at the 
water, and turned away his head. 

“Do you remember,” said Chicot, “the little dinner at the 
Porte Montmartre, where, while the king was scourging himself 
and others, we devoured a teal from the marshes of the Grange- 
Batelitre, with a sauce made with crabs, and we drank that nice 
Burgundy wine; what do you call it ?” 

“Tt is a wine of my country, La Romanée.” 

“Ves, yes, it was the milk you sucked as a baby, worthy son 
of Noah.” 

“Tt was good,” said Gorenflot, “but there is better.” 

So says Claude Boutromet, who pretends that he has in his 
cellar fifty bottles to which that is paltry.” 

“It is true.” 

“True, and yet you drink that abominable red water. 
Fie!” And Chicot, taking the glass, threw the contents out of 
window. 

“There is a time for all, my brother,” said Gorenflot, “ and 
wine is good when one has only to praise God after it, but 
water is better when one has a discourse to pronounce.” 


od 


4 


98 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“ Opinions differ, for I, who have also a discourse to pro- 
nounce, am going to ask for a bottle of Romanee. What do 
you advise me to take with it, Gorenflot ?” a 

“Not these herbs, they are not nice.” Chicot, seizing the 
plate, threw it after the water, and then cried, “‘ Maitre Claude.” 

The host appeared. 

“ M. Claude, bring me two bottles of your Romanée, which 
you call so good.” Me ws 

“Why two bottles,” said Gorenflot, ‘‘as I do not drink Litt 

“Qh! if you did I would have four or six, but # I drink 
alone, two will do for me.” 

“Indeed; two bottles are reasonable, and if you eat no 
meat with it, your confessor will have nothing to reproach you 
with.” ; 

“ Oh, of course not ; meat ona Friday in Lent ” And going 
to the larder, he drew out a fine capon. 

“What are you duing, brother?” said Gorenflot, following 
his movements with interest. 

“Vou see I am taking this carp.” 

“Carp !” cried Gorenflot. 

“Yes, a carp,” said Chicot, showing him the tempting bird. 

“ And since when has a carp had a beak ?” 

“A beak! do you see a beak ? I only see a nose.” 

“ And wings ?” 

eoas V2 

“< Feathers ?” 

“Scales, my dear Gorenflot, you are drunk.” i 

“Drunk! I, who have only eaten spinach and drunk water ?” 

“Well, your spinach has overloaded your stomach, and your 
water has mounted to your head.” 

“ Parbleu ! here is our host, he shall decide.” 

“So be it, but first let him uncork the wine.” 

M. Boutromet uncorked a bottle and gave a glass to Chicot. 

Chicot swallowed and smacked his lips. 
_ “Ah! said he, “T have a bad memory, I cannot remember 
if it be better or worse than that at Montmartre. Here, my 
orother, enlighten me,” said he, giving a little to the monk, who 
was looking on with eager eyes. 

pee took the glass, and drank slowly the liquor it con- 
tained. 


“Tt is the same wine,” said he, “ but I had too little to tell 
whether it be better or worse.” 





BROTHER GORENFLOT. 99 


“But I want to know, and if you had not a sermon to preach, 
I would beg you to drink a little more.” 

“Tf it will give you pleasure, my brother.” 

Chicot half filled the monk’s glass. Gorenflot drank it with 
great gravity. 

“‘] pronounce it better,” said he. 

“You flatter our host.” 

“ A good drinker ought, at the first draught, to recognise the 
wine, at the second, the quality, and, at the third, the age.” 

“Oh! I should like to know the age of this wine.” 

** Give me a few drops more, and I will tell you.” 

Chicot filled his glass) He drank it off, and then said, 
ard. 

“ Right,” cried Claude Boutromet, “it was 1561.” 

“Brother Gorenfiot,” cried Chicot, ‘‘they have beatified men 
at Rome who were worth less than you.” 

“ A little habit,” said Gorenflot, modestly. 

“ And talent ; for I flatter myself I have the habit, and I 
could not do it. But what are you about ?” 

“‘ Going to my assembly.” 

“Without eating a piece of my carp?” 

“Ah! true; you know still less of eating than drinking. M. 
Boutromet, what is the name of this animal ?” 

The innkeeper looked astonished. “A capon,” said he. 

“A capon !’ cried Chicot, with an air of consternation. 

Yes, and a fine one.” 

“ Well !” said Gorenflot, triumphantly. 

“Well! it seems I was wrong, but asI wish to eat this capon, 
and yet not sin, be so kind, brother, as to throw a few drops of 
water upon it, and christen it a carp.” 

“Ah! ah!” 

“Yes, I pray you, save me from mortal sin.” 

“So be it,” cried Gorenflot, “‘ but there is no water.” 

“Oh! the intention is all; baptize it with wine, my brother ; 
the animal will be less Catholic but quite as good.” And 
Chicot refilled the monk’s glass. The first bottle was finished. 

“In the name of Bacchus, Momus, and Comus, trinity of 
the great saint Pantagruel, I baptize thee, carp,” said Gorenflot. 

“Now,” said Chicot, “to the health of the newly bap- 
tized ; may it be cooked to perfection, and may M. Boutromet 
add to the excellent qualities which it has received from na- 
ture. 


i [—— 


100 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“To his health,” cried Gorenflot, interrupting a hearty laugh 
to swallow his wine. 

“M. Claude, put this carp at once on the spit, cover it with 
fresh butter, with shalots in it, and put some toast in the frying- 
pan, and serve it hot.” Gorenflot approved with a motion of his 
head. 

‘Now, M. Boutromet, some sardines and a tunny fish, mean- 
while ; it is Lent, and I wish to make a maigre dinner. And let 
me have two more bottles of wine.” 

The smell of the cookery began to mount to the brain of the 
monk. Yet he made a last effort to rise. 

“Then you leave me, after all ?” said Chicot. 

“T must,” said Gorenflot, raising his eyes to heaven. 

“Tt is very imprudent of you to go to pronounce a discourse 
fasting.” 

“6 Why 2” 

“Because your strength will fail you. Galen has said it. 
Pulmo hominis facile deficit.” 

* Alas ! yes.” 

‘HV oursee, then 2” 

“ Luckily, I have zeal.” 

“Ah! butthat is not enough; I advise you to eat some sardines, 
and drink a little of this nectar.” 

“A single sardine, then, and one glass.” Chicot gave him the 
sardine, and passed him the bottle. He himself took care to 
keep sober. 

“T feel myself less feeble,” said Gorenflot. 

“ Oh! you must feel quite strong before you go, and so I advise 
you to eat the fins of the carp.” And as they entered with the 
pullet, Chicot cut off a leg and thigh, which Gorenflot soon 
despatched. 

“What a delicious fish !” said Gorenflot. Chicot cut off the 
other leg and gave it to Gorenflot, while he ate the wings. 

“And famous wine,” said he, uncorking another bottle. 

Having once commenced, Gorenflot could not stop. His 
appetite was enormous ; he finished the bird, and then called to 


me ae : 
Boutromet. M. Claude,’ said he, “I am hungry ; did you not 
offer me an omelette just now ?” 


“ Certainly.” 
“Well, bring it.” 
“In five minutes.” 


“Ah !” said Gorenflot, “now I feel in force; if the ome’ 








BROTHER GORENFLOT. 101 


lette were here, I could eat it at a mouthful, and I swallow 
this wine at a gulp.” And he swallowed a quarter of the third 
bottle. 

“ Ah! you were ill before.” 

“‘T was foolish, friend; that cursed discourse weighed on my 
mind; I have been thinking of it for days.” 

“Tt ought to be magnificent.” 

“¢ Splendid.” 

“Tell me some of it while we wait for the omelette.” 

“No, no ; not a sermon at table.” 

“We have beautiful discourses at the court, I assure you.” 

“* About what ?” 

“ About virtue.” 

“Ah! yes, he is a very virtuous man, our King Henri III.” 

“JT do not know if he be virtuous; but I know that I have 
never seen anything there to make me blush.” 

“You biush !” 

At this moment M. Boutromet entered with the omelette and 
two more bottles. 

“ Bring it here,” cried the monk, with a smile, which showed 
his thirty-two teeth. 

“ But, friend, I thought you had a discourse to pronounce.” 

“Tt is here,” cried Gorenflot, striking his forehead. 

“< At half-past nine.” 

© lied ; it was ten.” 

“Ten! I thought the abbey shut at nine.” 

Let it shut; I have a key.” 

“A key of the abbey !” 

“Here, in my pocket.” 

“Impossible ; I know the monastic rules. They would not 
give the key to a simple monk.” 

“ Here it is,” said Gorenflot, showing a piece of money. 

“Oh, money! you corrupt the porter to go in when you please, 
wretched sinner! But what strange money !” 

“ An effigy of the heretic, with a hole through his heart.” 

“Yes, I see it is a tester of the Bearn king’s, and here is a 
aole.” 

““A blow with a dagger. Death to the heretic. He who does 
it is sure of Paradise.” 

“ He is not yet drunk enough ;” so thought Chicot; and he 
filled his glass again. 

“To the mass !” cried Gorenflot, drinking it off. 


102 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


Chicot remembered the porter looking at the hands of the 
monks, and said— 
“ Then, if you show this to the porter—— 

“T enter.” 

“ Without difficulty >?” 

“As this wine into my stomach.” And the monk absorbed 
a new dose. 

“ And you pronounce your discourse?” _ 

“And I pronounce my discourse. I arrive—do you hear ? 
The assembly is numerous and select. There are barons, counts, 
and dukes.” 

“¢ And even princes P” 

“ And even princes. I enter humbly among the faithful of 
the Union——” 

“The Union—what does that mean ?” 

“T enter; they call Brother Gorenflot, and I advance——” 

At these words the monk rose. ‘‘ And I advance,” con- 
tinued he, trying to do so, but at the first step he rolled on the 
floor. 

“Bravo!” cried Chicot; “you advance, you salute the 
audience, and say-——” 

“No, it is my friends who say, Brother Gorenflot—a fine name 
for a leaguer, is it not ?” 

“A leaguer,” thought Chicot ; ‘ what truths is this wine going 
to bring out ?” 

“Then I begin.” And the monk rose, and leaned against the 
wall. é 

“You begin,” said Chicot, holding him up. 

“T begin, ‘ My brothers, it is a good day for the faith, a 
very good day, my brothers; it is a very good day for the faith.’ ” 

After this, as CLicot loosed his hold, Gorenflot fell full length 
site on the floor, and before many minutes a loud snoring was 

eard. 


“Good,” said C.1icot, “he is in for twelve hours’ sleep. I can 
easily undress him.’ 

He then untied the monk’s robe, and pulled it off; then 
rolled Gorenflot in the tablecloth, and covered his head with 
a napkin, and hiding tne monk’s frock under his cloak, passed 
‘nto the kitchen. 

“M. Boutromet,” said he, “here is for our supper, and for 


my horse; and pray do not wake the worthy Brother Gorenflot, 
who sleeps sound,” 


> 





CHICOT FINDS IT EASIER TO GO IN THAN OUT. 103 


“No, no ; be easy, M. Chicot.” 

Then Chicot ran to the Rue St. Etienne, put on the monk’s 
robe, took the tester in his hand, and at a quarter to ten pre- 
sented himself, not without a “beating heart, at the wicket of the 
Abbey St. Genevitve. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


HOW CHICOT FOUND OUT THAT IT WAS EASIER TO GO IN THAN 
OUT OF THE ABBEY. 


Cuicor, from the cloak and other things under the monk’s 
robe, looked much larger across the shoulders than usual. His 
beard was of the same colour as Gorenflot’s, and he had so often 
amused himself with mimicking the monk’s voice and manner 
of speaking that he could do it perfectly. Now, every one knows 
that the beard and the voice are the only things which are re- 
cognisable from under the depths of a monk’s hood.  Chicot 
exhibited his coin, and was admitted without difficulty, and then 
followed two other monks to the chapel of the convent. In 
this chapel, built in the eleventh century, the choir was raised 
nine or ten feet above the rest of the building, and you mounted 
into it by two lateral staircases, while an iron door between them 
led from the nave to the crypt, into which you had to descend 
again. In this choir there was a portrait of St. Geneviéve, and 
on each side of the altar were statues of Clovis and Clotilda. 

Three lamps only lighted the chapel, and the imperfect 
light gave a greater solemnity to the scene. Chicot was glad 
to find that he was not the last, for three monks entered after 
in grey robes, and placed themselves in front of the altar. 
Soon after, a little monk, doubtless a lad belonging to the 
choir, came and spoke to one of these monks, who then said, 
aloud,— 

“We are now one hundred and thirty-six.” 

Then a great noise of bolts and bars announced that the 
door was being closed. The three monks were seated in arm- 
chairs, like judges. ‘The one who had spoken before now rose 
and said— 

“ Brother Monsoreau, what news do you bring to the Union 
from the proyince of Anjou ?” 


104 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


Two things made Chicot start, the first was the voice of the 
speaker, the second the name of Monsoreau, known to the court 
only the last few days. A tall monk crossed the assembly, and 
placed himself in a large chair, behind the shadow of which 
Chicot had kept himself. ; ; : 

“ My brothers,” said a voice which Chicot recognised at once 
as that of the chief huntsman, ‘‘the news from Anjou 1s not satis- 
factory ; not that we fail there in sympathy, but in representa- 
tives. The progress of the Union there had been confided to 
the Baron de Méridor, but he, in despair at the recent death of 
his daughter, has, in his grief, neglected the affairs of the League, 
and we cannot at present countonhim. As for myself, I bring 
three new adherents to the association. ‘The council must 
judge whether these three, for whom I answer, as for myself, 
ought to be admitted into the Union.” 

A murmur of applause followed, and as Monsoreau regained 
his seat,—“ Brother la Huriére,” cried the same monk, “tell 
us what you have done in the city of Paris.” 

A man now took the chair and said, ‘‘ My brothers, you know 
I am devoted to the Catholic faith, and I have given proofs of 
this devotion on the great day of its triumph. Yes, my brothers, 
I glory in saying that I was one of the faithful of our great 
Henri de Guise, and that I followed his orders strictly. I have 
now noted all the heretics of the Quartier St. Germain PAuxer- 
rois, where I shall hold the hotel of the Belle-Etoile, at your 
service, my brothers. Now, although I no longer thirst for the 
blood of heretics as formerly, I do not delude myself as to the 
real object of the holy Union which we are forming. ‘ If I am 
not deceived, brothers, the extinction of private heretics is 
not all we aim at. We wish to be sure that we shall never be 
governed by a heretic prince. Now, my friends, what is our 
situation ? Charles IX., who was zealous, died without children; 
Henri III. will probably do the same, and there remains only 
the Duc d’Anjou, who not only has no children either, but seems 
cold towards us.” 

“What makes you accuse the prince thus ?” said the monk 
who always spoke. 

‘‘ Because he has not joined us.” 

. Who tells you SO, since there are new adherents 2” 

‘It is true; I will wait; but after him, who is mortal, and 
has no children, to whom will the crown fall? To the most 


eHICOT FINDS IT EASIER TO GO 1N THAN OUT, 105 


ferocious Huguenot that can be imagined, to a renegade, a 
Nebuchadnezzar!” Here the acclamations were tremendous. 

“To Henri of Béarn,” continued he, “against whom this 
association is chiefly directed—to Henri, who the people at Pau, 
or Tarbes, think is occupied with his love affairs, but who is in 
Paris !” 

“Tn Paris! impossible !” cried many voices. 

“He was here on the night when Madame de Sauve was 
assassinated, and perhaps is here still.” 

“Death to the Béarnais !” cried several. 

“Ves, doubtless, and if he came to lodge at the Belle-Etoile, 
I answer for him; but he will not come. One does not catch a 
fox twice in the same hole. He will lodge with some friend, 
for he has friends. The important thing is toknow them. Our 
union is holy, our league is loyal, consecrated and blessed by 
the Pope ; therefore I demand that it be no longer kept secret, 
but that we go into the houses and canvass the citizens. Those 
who sign will be our friends, the others our enemies, and if a 
second St. Bartholomew cone, which seems to the faithful to 
be more necessary daily, we shall know how to separate the 
good from the wicked.” 

Thunders of acclamation followed. When they were calm, 
the monk who always spoke said,— 

“The proposition of Brother la Huritre, whom the union 
thanks for his zeal, will be taken into consideration by the su- 
perior council.” 

La Huriere bowed, amidst fresh applause. 

“Ah! ah!” thought Chicot, “I begin to see clearly into all 
this. The Guises are forming a nice little party, and some fine 
morning Henri will find that he has nothing left, and will be 
politely invited to enter a monastery. But what will they do 
with the Duc d’Anjou ?” . 

“ Brother Gorenflot,” then cried the monk. 

No one replied. 

“Brother Gorenflot,” cried the little monk, in a voice which 
made Chicot start ; for it sounded like a woman’s. However, 
he rose, and speaking like the monk, said,— 

“Here I am; I was plunged in profound meditation.” He 
feared not to reply, for the members had been counted, and 
therefore the absence of a member would have provoked an 
examination. ‘Therefore, without hesitation, he mounted the 
chair and began. 


106 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“< My brothers, you know that I purvey for the convent, and 
have the right of entering every dwelling. I use this privilege 
for the good of religion. My brothers,” continued he, remem- 
ing Gorenflot’s beginning, “this day, which unites us, 1s a good 
one for the faith. Let us speak freely, my brothers, since we 
are in the house of God. by Ree 

“ What is the kingdom of France? A body. ‘ Omnis civitas 
corpus est. What is the first requisite of a body? Good health. 
How do we preserve this? By prudent bleedings at times. 
Now it is evident that the enemies of our religion are too 
strong ; we must therefore once more bleed that great body we 
call society. This is what is constantly said to me by the faith- 
ful, who give me ham, eggs, or money for the convent.” 

Several murmurs of approbation interrupted Chicot, then he 
went on. 

“ Some may object that the church abhors blood. But they 
do not say what blood, and I wager that it is not the blood of 
heretics it abhors. And then another argument ; I said, ‘the 
church ; but are we the church? Brother Monsoreau, who 
spoke so well just now, has, I doubt not, his huntsman’s knife 
in his belt. Brother la Huritre manages the spit; I, myself, 
who speak to you—I, Jacques Gorenflot, have carried the 
musket in Champagne. It now remains to us to speak of our 
chiefs, of whom it seems to me, poor monk as IJ am, that there 
is something to say. Certainly, it is very well and prudent to 
come at night under a monk’s robe, to hear Brother Gorenflot 
preach; but it appears to me that their duties do not stop 
there. So much prudence may make the Huguenots laugh. 
Let us play a part more worthy of the brave people we are. 
What do we want? ‘The extinction of heresy. Well, that may 
be cried from the house-tops, it seems to me. Why not march 
in holy procession, displaying our good cause, and our good 
partisans, but not like the thieves, who keep looking round 
them to see if the watch is coming. Who is the man who 
will set the example? Well, it is I, Jacques Gorenflot; I, un- 
worthy brother of the order of St. Geneviéve, poor and humble 
purveyor of the convent. It shall be I, who with a cuirass on 
my back, a helmet on my head, and a musket on my shoulder, 
will march at the head of all good Catholics who will follow 
me. This I would do, were it only to make those chiefs blush, 


who, while defending the Church, hide, as if their cause was a 
bad one.” 








CHICOT FINDS IT EASIER TO GO IN THAN OVT. 107 


This speech, which corresponded with the sentiments of many 
there, was received with shouts of applause ; and the more so, 
as up to this time Gorenflot had never shown any enthusiasm 
for the cause. However, it was not the plan of the chiefs to let 
this enthusiasm proceed. One of the monks spoke to the lad, 
who cried in his silvery voice, ‘“‘ My brothers, it is time to re- 
tire; the sitting is over.” 

The monks rose, all determined to insist on the procession at 
the next meeting. Many approached the chair to felicitate the 
author of this brilliant speech ; but Chicot, fearful of being re- 
cognised, threw himself on his knees and buried his head in 
his hands, as if in prayer. ‘They respected his devotions, and 
went towards the door. However, Chicot had missed his chief 
aim. What had made him quit the king was the sight of M. 
de Mayenne and Nicolas David, on both of whom he had, as 
we know, vowed vengeance ; and although the duke was too 
great a man to be attacked openly, Nicolas David was not, and 
Chicot was so good a swordsman as to feel sure of success if he 
could but meet him. He therefore began to watch each monk 
as he went out, and perceived to his terror that each, on going 
out, had to show some sign again. Gorenflot had told him how 
to get in, but not how to get out again. 


——_ 


CHAPTER XX. 


HOW CHICOT, FORCED TO REMAIN IN THE ABBEY, SAW AND 
HEARD THINGS VERY DANGEROUS TO SEE AND HEAR. 


Cuicor hastened to get down from his chair, and to mix among 
the monks so as to discover, if possible, what signs they used. 
By peeping over their shoulders, he found out that it was a 
farthing, with a star cut in the middle. Our Gascon had plenty 
of farthings in his pocket, but unluckily none with a star in it. 
Of course, if when on coming to the door he was unable to 
produce the necessary signs, he would be suspected and ex- 
amined. He gained the shade of a pillar, which stood at 
the corner of a confessional, and stood there wondering what he 
should do. An assistant cried, “Is every one out, the doors 
are about to be shut.” 

Noone answered ; Chicot peeped out and saw the chapel 


108 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


empty, with the exception of the three monks, who still kept 
their seats in front of the choir. ; 

“Provided they do not shut the windows, it 1s all I ask, 
thought Chicot. 

“Let us examine,” said the young lad to the porter. Then 
the porter lifted a taper, and, followed by the young lad, began 
to make the tour of the church. There was not a moment to 
lose. Chicot softly opened the door of the confessional, slipped 
in, and shut the door after hin. They passed close by him, 
and he could see them through the spaces of the sculp- 
ture. ] 

“ Diable !” thought he, “he cannot stay here all night, and 
once they are gone, I will pile chairs upon benches, Pelion on 
Ossa, and get out of the window. Ah! yes, but when I have 
done that, I shall be, not in the street, but in the court. I 
believe it will be better to pass the night in the confessional ; 
Gorenflot’s robe is warm.” 

“Extinguish the lamps,” now cried the lad; and the porter, 
with an immense extinguisher, put out the lamps, and left the 
church dark, except for the rays of the moon, which shone 
through the windows. ‘The clock struck twelve. 

“Ventre de biche !” said Chicot, “ Henri, if he were here, 
would be nicely frightened; but, luckily, I am less timid. 
Come, Chicot, my friend, good-night and sleep well.” 

Then Chicot pushed the inside bolt, made himself as com- 
fortable as he could, and shut his eyes. He was just falling 
asleep, when he was startled by a loud stroke on a copper bell, 
and at the same time the lamp in the choir was re-lighted, and 
showed the three monks still there. 

“What can this mean ?” thought Chicot, starting up. Brave 
as he was, Chicot was not exempt from superstitious fears. He 
made the sign of the cross, murmuring, ‘“ Vade retro, Satanas !” 
But as the lights did not go out at the holy sign, Chicot began 
to think he had to deal with real monks and real lights ; but at 
this moment one of the flag-stones of the choir raised itself 
slowly, and a monk appeared through the opening, after which 
the stone shut again. At this sight Chicot’s hair stood on end, 
and he began to fear that all the priors and abbés of St. Gene- 
vieve, from Opsat, dead in 533, down to Pierre Boudin, prede- 
cessor of the present superior, were being resuscitated from their 
tombs, and were going to raise with their bony heads the stones 
of the choir, But this doubt did not last long. 








CHICOT IS FORCED TO REMAIN IN THE ABBEY. 109 


“ Brother Monsoreau,” said one of the monks to him who had 
just made so strange an appearance. 

“Yes, monseigneur,” said he. 

“Open the door that he may come to us.” 

Monsoreau descended to open the door between the stair- 
cases, and at the same time the monk in the middle lowered 
his hood, and showed the great scar, that noble sign by which 
the Parisians recognised their hero. 

“The great Henri of Guise himself !” thought Chicot, ‘‘ whom 
his very imbecile majesty believes occupied at the siege of La 
Charité. Ah! and he at the right is the Cardinal of Lorraine, 
and he at the left M. de Mayenne—a trinity not very holy, but 
very visible.” 

“Did you think he would come ?” said La Balafré to his 
brothers. 

“IT was so sure of it, that I have under my cloak wherewith 
to replace the holy vial.” 

And Chicot perceived, by the feeble light of the lamp, a silver 
gilt box, richly chased. Then about twenty monks, with their 
heads buried in immense hoods, came out of the crypt, and 
stationed themselves in the nave. A single one, conducted by 
M. de Monsoreau, mounted the staircase, and placed himself 
at the right of M. de Guise. 

Then M. de Guise spoke. “ Friends,” said he, “time is pre- 
cious ; therefore I go straight to the point. You have heard 
just now, in the first assembly, the complaints of some of our 
members, who tax with coldness the principal person among 
us, the prince nearest to the throne. ‘The time is come to 
render justice to this prince ; you shall hear and judge for your- 
selves whether your chiefs merit the reproach of coldness and 
apathy made by one of our brothers, the monk Gorenflot, 
whom we have not judged it prudent to admit into our secret.” 

At this name, pronounced in a tone which showed bad inten- 
tions towards the warlike monk, Chicot in his confessional could 
not help laughing quietly. 

“Monseigneur,” said the duke, now turning towards the 
mysterious personages at his right, ‘the will of God appears to 
me manifest ; for since you have consented to join us, it shows 
that what we do is well done. Now, your highness, we beg of 
you to lower your hood, that your faithful friends may see with 
their own eyes that you keep the promise which I made in your 
name, and which they hardly dared to believe.” 


110 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


The mysterious personage now lowered his hood, and Chicot 
saw the head of the Duc d’Anjou appear, so pale that, by the 
light of the lamp, it looked like that of a marble statue. _ 

~“ Oh, oh!” thought Chicot, “the duke is not yet tired of 
playing for the crown with the heads of others ! 

“ Long live Monseigneur le Duc d’Anjou!” cried the assembly. 

The duke grew paler than ever. 

“Fear nothing, monseigneur,” said Henri de Guise ; “ our 
chapel is deaf, and its doors are well closed.” 

“ My brothers,” said the Comte de Monsoreau, “his highness 
wishes to address a few words to the assembly.” 

“Ves, yes !” cried they. 

“ Gentlemen,” began he, in a voice so trembling that at first 
they could hardly distinguish his words, “I believe that God, 
who often seems insensible and deaf to the things of this world, 
keeps, on the contrary, his piercing eyes constantly on us, and 
only remains thus careless in appearance in order to remedy, 
by some great blow, the disorders caused by the foolish ambi- 
tions of men. I also have kept my eyes, if not on the world, at 
least on France. What have I seen there? ‘The holy religion 
of Christ shaken to its foundation by those who sap all belief, 
under the pretext of drawing nearer to God, and my soul has 
been full of grief. In the midst of this grief, I heard that 
several noble and pious gentlemen, friends of our old faith, 
were trying to strengthen the tottering altar. I threw my eyes 
around me, and saw on one side the heretics, from whom I re- 
coiled with horror; on the other side the elect, and I am come 
to throw myself into their arms. My brothers, here I am.” 

The applause and bravos resounded through the chapel. 
Then the cardinal, turning to the duke, said : 

“You are amongst us of your own free will ?” 

“Of my free will, monsieur.” 

“Who instructed you in the holy mystery 2?” 

“My friend, the Comte de Monsoreau, a man zealous for 
religion.” 
_ “Then,” said the Duc de Guise, “as your highness has 
joined us, have the goodness to tell us what you intend to do 
for the league.” 

“| intend to serve the Catholic religion in all its extent.” 

_ “Ventre de biche !” thought Chicot, “why not propose this 

right out to the king? It would suit him excellently—proces- 
sions, macerations, extirpation of heresy, faggots, and auto-da- 


CHICOT IS LORCED TO REMAIN IN THE ABBEY. 111 


fés! Go on, worthy brother of his majesty, noble imbecile, 
go on!” 

And the duke, as if sensible of the encouragement, proceeded: 
“But the interests of religion are not the sole aim which you 
gentlemen propose. As for me, I see another; for when a 
gentleman has thought of what he owes to God, he then thinks 
of his country, and he asks himself if it really enjoys all the 
honour and prosperity which it ought to enjoy. I ask this 
about our France, and I see with grief that it does not. In- 
deed, the state is torn to pieces by different wills and tastes, one 
as powerful as the other. It is, I fear, to the feebleness of the 
head, which forgets that it ought to govern all for the good 
of its subjects, or only remembers this royal principle at capri- 
cious intervals, when the rare acts of energy are generally not 
for the good, but the ill of France, that we must attribute these 
evils. Whatever be the cause, the ill is a real one, although I 
accuse certain false friends of the king rather than the king 
himself. Therefore I join myself to those who by all means seek 
the extinction of heresy and the ruin of perfidious counsellors.” 

This discourse appeared profoundly to interest the audience, 
who, throwing back their hoods, drew near to the duke. 

“Monseigneur,” said the Duc de Guise, “in thanking your 
royal highness for the words you have just uttered, I will add 
that you are surrounded by people devoted not only to the prin- 
ciples which you profess, but to the person of your highness ; 
and if you have any doubt, the conclusion of this sitting will 
convince you.” 

“‘ Monseigneur,” said the cardinal, “if your highness still ex- 
periences any fear, the names of those who now surround you 
will, I hope, reassure you. Here is M. le Gouverneur d’Aunis, 
M. d’Antragues, M. de Ribeirac, and M. de Livarot, gentlemen 
whom your highness doubtless knows to be as brave as loyal. 
Here are, besides, M. de Castillon, M. le Baron de Lusignan, 
MM. Cruce and Leclerc, all ready to march under the guidance 
of your highness, to the emancipation of religion and the throne. 
We shall, then, receive with gratitude the orders that you will 
give us.” 

Then M. de Mayenne said: “ You are by your birth, and by 
your wisdom, monseigneur, the natural chief of the Holy Union, 
and we ought to learn from you what our conduct should be 
with regard to the false friends of his majesty of whom you just 
now spoke,” 


1i2 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“ Nothing more simple,” replied the prince, with that feverish 
excitement which in weak natures supplies the place of courage 
to weak minds; “when venomous plants grow in a field, we 
root them up. The king is surrounded, not with friends, but 
with courtiers, who ruin him, and cause a perpetual scandal in 
France and all Christendom.” 

“Tt is true,” said the Duc de Guise, in a gloomy tone. 

“ And,” said the cardinal, ‘‘these courtiers prevent us, who 
are his majesty’s true friends, from approaching him, as we have 
the right to do by our birth and position.” 

“Let us, then,” said M. de Mayenne, “leave the heretics to 
the vulgar leaguers; let us think of those who annoy and insult 
us, and who often fail in respect to the prince whom we honour, 
and who is our chief.” 

The Duc d’Anjou grew red. 

“Tet us destroy,” continued Mayenne, “to the last man, 
that cursed race whom the king enriches, and let each of us 
charge ourselves with the life of one. We are thirty here; let 
us count.” 

“JT,” said D’Antragues, “charge myself with Quelus.” 

“T with Maugiron,” said Livarot. 

“And I with Schomberg,” said Ribeirac. 

“Good !” said the duke; “and there is Bussy, my brave 
Bussy, who will undertake some of them.” 

‘And us !” cried the rest. 

M. de Monsoreau now advanced. ‘‘ Gentlemen,” said he, 
“T claim an instant’s silence. We are resolute men, and yet 
we fear to speak freely to each other ; we are intelligent men, 
and yet we are deterred by foolish scruples. Come, gentlemen, 
a little courage, a little hardihood, a little frankness. It is not 
of the king’s minions that we think; there does not lie our diffi- 
culty. What we really complain of is the royalty which we are 
under, and which is not acceptable to a French nobility ; prayers 
and despotism, weakness and orgies, prodigality for fétes which 
make all Europe laugh, and parsimony for everything that re- 
gards the State and the arts. Such conduct is not weakness 
or ignorance—it is madness.” 

A dead silence followed this speech. Everyone trembled at 
the words which echoed his own thoughts. M. de Monsoreau 
went or. 

“Must we live under a king, foolish, inert, and lazy, at a time 
When all other nations are active, and work gloriously, while we 





CHICOT IS FORCED TO REMAIN IN THE ABBEY. 113 


sleep? Gentlemen, pardon me for saying before a prince, who 
will perhaps blame my temerity (for he has the prejudices of 
family), that for four years we have been governed, not by a 
king, but by a monk.” 

At these words the explosion so skilfully prepared and as skil- 
fully kept in check, burst out with violence. 

“ Down with the Valois !” they cried, “down with Brother 
Henri! Let us have for chief a gentleman, a knight, rather a 
tyrant than a monk.” 

“Gentlemen !” cried the Due d’Anjou, hypocritically, “ let 
me plead for my brother, who is led away. Let me hope 
that our wise remonstrances, that the efficacious intervention 
of the power of the League, will bring him back into the right 
path.” 

“ Hiss, serpent, hiss,” said Chicot to himself. 

“ Monseigneur,” replied the Duc de Guise, “your highness 
has heard, perhaps rather too soon, but still you have heard, 
the true meaning of the association. No! we are not really 
thinking of a league against the Béarnais, nor of a league to 
support the Church, which will support itself: no, we think of 
raising the nobility of France from its abject condition. Too 
long we have been kept back by the respect we feel for your 
highness, by the love which we know you to have for your family. 
Now, all is revealed, monseigneur, and your highness will assist 
at the true sitting of the League. All that has passed is but 
preamble.” 

‘What do you mean, M. le Duc ?” asked the prince, his heart 
beating at once with alarm and ambition. 

“Monseigneur, we are united here, not only to talk, but to 
act. To-day we choose a chief capable of honouring and en- 
riching the nobility of France ; and as it was the custom of the 
ancient Franks when they chose a chief to give him a present 
worthy of him, we offer a present to the chief whom we have 
chosen.” 

All hearts beat, and that of the prince most of any; yet he 
remained mute and motionless, betraying his emotion only by 
his paleness. 

“Gentlemen,” continued the duke, taking something from 
behind him, “here is the present that in your name I place at 
the feet of the prince.” 

“A crown!” cried the prince, scarcely able to stand, “a 
crown to me, gentlemen ?” 

2 


114 CHICOT, TIE JESTER. 


“ Long live Francois III. !” cried all the gentlemen, drawing 
their swords. 

“1! 1! cried the duke, trembling with joy and terrcr. “It 
is impossible ! My brother still lives ; he is the anointed of the 
Lord.” Pa : 

“ We depose him,” said the duke, “ waiting for the time when 
God shall sanction, by his death, the election which we are 
about to make, or rather, till one of his subjects, tired of this 
inglorious reign, forestalls by poison or the dagger the justice of 
God.” 

‘Gentlemen !” said the duke, feebly. 

“ Monseigneur,” then said the cardinal, “ to the scruple which 
you so nobly expressed just now, this is our answer. Henri III. 
was the anointed of the Lord, but we have deposed him ; it 1s 
you who are going to be so. Here is a temple as venerable as 
that of Rheims; for here have reposed the relics of St. Gene- 
vieve, patroness of Paris ; here has been embalmed the body of 
Clovis, our first Christian king; well, monseigneur, in this holy 
temple, I, one of the princes of the Church, and who may 
reasonably hope to become one day its head, I tell you, mon- 
seigneur, that here, to replace the holy oil, is an oil sent by Pope 
Gregory XIII. Monseigneur, name your future archbishop of 
Rheims, name your constable, and in an instant, it is you who 
will be king, and your brother Henri, if he do not give you up 
the crown, will be the usurper. Child, light the altar.” 

Immediately, the lad, who was evidently waiting, came out, 
and presently fifty lights shone round the altar and choir. 

Then was seen on the altar a mitre glittering with ‘precious 
stones, and a large sword ornamented with fleurs-de-lis. It was 
the archbishop’s mitre and the constable’s sword. At the same 
moment the organ began to play the Veni Creator. This sudden 
stroke, managed by the three Lorraine princes, and which the 
Duc d’Anjou himself did not expect, made a profound impres- 
sion on the spectators. The courageous grew bolder than ever, 
and the weak grew strong. The Duc d’Anjou raised his head, 
and with a firmer step than might have been expected, walked 
to the altar, took the mitre in the left hand and the sword in the 
right, presented one to the cardinal and the other to the duke. 
Unanimous applause followed this action. 

“Now, gentlemen,” said the prince to the others, “ give 
your names to M. de Mayenne, grand master of France, and 


the day when I ascend the throne, you shall have the cordon 
bleu.” 


—— EE 


CHICOT IS FORCED TO REMAIN IN THE ABBEY. 115 


“Mordieu !” thought Chicot, “what a pity I cannot give . 
mine; I shall never have such another opportunity.” 

“‘ Now to the altar, sire,” said the cardinal. 

“Monsieur de Monsoreau my colonel, MM. de Ribeirac and 
d’Antragues my captains, and M. Livarot, my lieutenant of the 
guards, take your places.” 

Each of those named took the posts which, at a real corona- 
tion, etiquette would have assigned to them. Meanwhile, the 
cardinal had passed behind the altar to put on his pontifical 
robes ; soon he reappeared with the holy vial. Then the lad 
brought to him a Bible and across. The cardinal put the cross 
on the book and extended them towards the Duc d’Anjou, who 
put his hand on them, and said,— 

“In the presence of God, I promise to my people to maintain 
and honour our holy religion as a Christian king should. And 
may God and his saints aid me !” 

Then the Duc de Guise laid the sword before the altar, and 
the cardinal blessed it and gave it to the prince. 

“Sire,” said he, “ take this sword, which is given to you with 
the blessing of God, that you may resist your enemies, and 
protect and defend the holy Church, which is confided to you. 
Take this sword, that, with it, you may exercise justice, protect 
the widow and the orphan, repair disorders, so that, covering 
yourself with glory by all the virtues, you will be a blessing to 
your people.” 

Then the prince returned the sword, to the Duc de Guise, 
and knelt down. The cardinal opened the gold box, and, with 
the point of a golden needle, drew out some holy oil; he then 
said two prayers, and taking the oil on his finger, traced with 
it a cross on the head of the prince, saying, “ Ungo dein 
regem de oleo sanctificato, in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus 
Sancti.” 

The lad wiped off the oil with an embroidered handkerchief. 
Then the cardinal took the crown, and, holding it over the head 
of the prince, said, “‘ God crown thee with the crown of glory and 
justice.” Then, placing it, “Receive this crown, in the name of 
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” 

All brandished their swords and cried, ‘‘ Long live Francois 
EYL? 

“Sire,” said the cardinal, “ you reign henceforth over France.” 

“Gentlemen,” said the prince, “I shall never forget the 
names of the thirty gentlemen who first judged me worthy 

8 > 


_ 


116 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


to reign over them ; and now adieu, and may God have you in 
His holy keeping.” 

The Duc de Mayenne led away the new king, while the other 
two brothers exchanged an ironical smile. 


CHAPTER XXI. 
HOW CHICOT LEARNED GENEALOGY. 


WueEn the Duc d’Anjou was gone, and had been followea vy 
all the others, the three Guises entered the vestry. Chicoé, 
thinking of course this was the end, got up to stretch his limbs, 
and then, as it was nearly two o’clock, once more disposed him- 
self to sleep. ; 

But to his great astonishment, the three brothers almost im- 
mediately came back again, only this time without their frocks. 
On seeing them appear, the lad burst into so hearty a fit of 
laughing, that Chicot could hardly help laughing also. 

“To not laugh so loud, sister,” said the Duc de Mayenne ; 
“they are hardly gone out, and might hear you.” 

As he spoke, the seeming lad threw back his hood, and dis- 
played a head as charming and intelligent as. was ever painted ” 
by Leonardo da Vinci. Black eyes, full of fun, but which 
could assume an expression almost terrible in its seriousness, 
a little rosy mouth, and a round chin terminating the perfect 
oval of a rather pale face. It was Madame de Montpensier, a 
dangerous syren, who had the soul of a demon with the face of 
an angel. 

“‘ Ah, brother cardinal,” cried she, “‘ how well you acted the 
holy man! I was really afraid fora minute that you were serious; 
and he letting himself be greased and crowned. Oh, how horrid 
he looked with his crown on !” 

‘“ Never mind,” said the duke, “we have got what we wanted, 
and Francois cannot now deny his share. Monsoreau, who 
dapibtless had his own reasons for it, led the thing on well, and 
now he cannot abandon us, as he did La Mole and Coconnas.” 

Chicot saw that they had been laughing at M. d’Anjou, and 
as he detested him, would willingly have embraced them for 


it, always excepting M. de Mayenne, and giving his share to 
his sister, 


CHICOT LEARNS GENEALOGY. TX7; 


“Let us return to business,” said the cardinal, ‘is all well 
closed ?” 

“Oh, yes!” said the duchess, “but if you like I will go and see.” 

“Oh, no; you must be tired.” 

“No; it was too amusing.” 

“Mayenne, you say he is here ?” 

caves.” 

**T did not see him.” 

“No, he is hidden in a confessional.” 

These words startled Chicot fearfully. 

“Then he has heard and seen all ?” asked the duke. 

“* Never mind, he is one of us.” 

“ Bring him here, Mayenne.” 

Mayenne descended the staircase and came straight to where 
Chicot was hiding. He was brave, but now his teeth chattered 
with terror. “ Ah,” thought he, trying to get out his sword 
from under his monk’s frock, “at least I will kill him first !” 
The duke had already extended his hand to open the door, 
when Chicot heard the dic ess say : 

“Not there, Mayenne; in that confessional to the left.” 

“Tt was time,” thought Chicot, as the duke turned away, 
“but who the devil can the other be ?” 

“Come out, M. David,” said Mayenne, “we are alone.” 

“Here I am, monseigneur,” said he, coming out. 

“You have heard all?” asked the Duc de Guise. 

“‘T have not lost a word, monseigneur.” 

“Then you can report it to the envoy of his Holiness 
Gregory XIII. ?” 

“ Everything.” 

“Now, Mayenne tells me you have done wonders for us ; let 
us see.” 

“TI have done what I promised, monseigneur ; that is to say, 
found a method of seating you, without opposition, on the throne 
of France !” 

“They also !” thought Chicot ; ‘every one wants then to be 
King of France !” 

Chicot was gay now, for he felt safe once more, and he had 
discovered a conspiracy by which he hoped to ruin his two 
enemies. 

“To gain a legitimate right is everything,” continued Nicolas 
David, “and I have discovered that you are the true heirs, and 
the Valois only a usurping branch.” 


118 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Tt is difficult to believe,” said the duke, “that our house, 
however illustrious it may be, comes before the Valois.” 

“Tt is nevertheless proved, monseigneur,” said David, draw- 
ing out a parchment. The duke took it. 

‘What is this ?” said he. 

“The genealogical tree of the house of Lorraine.” 

“OF which the root is ?” 

“ Charlemagne, monseigneur.” 

“Charlemagne !” cried the three brothers, with an air of in- 
credulous satisfaction, “Impossible !” 

“Wait, monseigneur; you may be sure I have not raised a 
point to which any one may give the lie. What you want is a 
long lawsuit, during which you can gain over, not the people, 
they are yours, but the parliament. See, then, monseigneur, 
here it is. Ranier, first Duc de Lorraine, contemporary with 








Charlemagne ;—Guibert, his son ;—Henri, son of Guibert i 
“ But ” said the duke. 
“* A little patience, monseigneur. Bonne i 





“Ves,” said the duke, “daughter of Ricin, second son of 
Ranier.” 
“ Good; to whom married ?” 
“Bonne °” 
eo Ves.2 : 
“To Charles of Lorraine, son of Louis IV., King of 
Branee: ibe 
“Just so. Now add, ‘brother of Lothaire, despoiled of the 
crown of France by the usurper, Hugh Capet.’ ” 
“Oh! oh!” said the duke and the cardinal. 
“Now, Charles of Lorraine inherited from his brother Lo- 
thaire. Now, the race of Lothaire is extinct, therefore you are 
the only true heirs of the throne.” 
: What do you say to that, brother ?” cried the cardinal. 
I say, that unluckily there exists in France a law they call 
the Salic law, which destroys all our pretensions.” 
“TI expected that objection, monseigneur,” said David, “ but 
what is the first example of the Salic law ?” 
“The accession of Philippe de Valois, to the prejudice of 
Edward of England.” 
“What was the date of that accession 2” 
** 1328,” said the cardinal. 
“That is to say, 341 years after the usurpation of Hugh 
Capet, 240 years after the extinction of the race of Lothaire. 


4 








CHICOT LEARNS GENEALOGY. 119 


Then, for 240 years your ancestors had already had a right 
to the throne before the Salic law was invented. Now, every 
one knows that the law cannot have any retrospective effect.” 

“You are a clever man, M. David,” said the Duc de Guise. 

“It is very ingenious,” said the cardinal. 

“Tt is very fine,” said Mayenne. 

“Tt is admirable,” said the duchess ; “ then I am a princess 
royal. I will have no one less than the Emperor of Germany 
for a husband.” 

“Well; here are your 200 gold crowns which I promised 
you.” 

“‘ And here are 200 others,” said the cardinal, “ for the new 
mission with which we are about to charge you.” 

“Speak, monseigneur, I am ready.” 

“We cannot commission you to carry this genealogy your- 
self to our holy Father, Gregory XIII.” 

“Alas! no; my will is good, but I am of too poor birth.” 

“Yes, it is a misfortune. We must therefore send Pierre de 
Gondy on this mission.” 

“Permit me to speak,” said the duchess. “The Gondys are 
clever, no doubt, but ambitious, and not to be trusted.” 

“Oh! reassure yourself. Gondy shall take this, but mixed 
with other papers, and not knowing what he carries. The 
Pope will approve, or disapprove, silently, and Gondy will bring 
us back the answer, still in ignorance of what he brings. You, 
Nicolas David, shall wait for him at Chalons, Lyons, or Avig- 
non, according to your instructions. ‘Thus you alone will know 
our true secret.” 

Then the three brothers shook hands, embraced their sister, 
put on again their monks’ robes, and disappeared. Behind 
them the porter drew the bolts, and then came in and extin- 
guished the lights, and Chicot heard his retreating steps fainter 
and fainter, and all was silent. 

“It seems now all is really over,” thought Chicot, and he 
came out of the confessional. He had noticed in a corner a 
ladder, destined to clean the windows. He felt about until he 
found it, for it was close to him, and by the light of the moon 
placed it against the window. He easily opened it, and striding 
across it, and drawing the ladder to him with that force and 
address which either fear or joy always give, he drew it from 
the inside to the outside. When he had descended, he hid 
the ladder in a hedge, which was planted at the bottom of the 


129 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


wall, jumped from tomb to tomb, until he reached the outside 
wall, over which he clambered. Once in the street he bremes 
more freely; he had escaped with a few scratches from the 
place where he had several times felt his life in danger. He 
went straight to the Corne d@’Abondance, at which he knocked. 
It was opened by Claude Boutromet himself, who knew him at 
once, although he went out dressed as a cavalier, and returned 
attired as a monk. 

“ Ah! is it you?” cried h2. 

Chicot gave him a crown, and asked for Gorenflot. 

The host smiled, and said, “ Look !” 

srother Gorenflot lay snoring just in the place where Chicot 
had left him. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


HOW M. AND MADAME DE ST. LUC MET WITH A TRAVELLING 
COMPANION. 


Tur next morning, about the time when Gorenflot woke from 
his nap, warmly rolled in his frock, our reader, if he had been 
travelling on the road from Paris to Angers, might have seen a 
gentleman and his page, riding quietly side by side. ‘These 
cavaliers had arrived at Chartres the evening before, with 
foaming horses, one of which had fallen with fatigue,,as they 
stopped. They entered the inn, and half an hour after set 
out on fresh horses. Once in the country, still bare and cold, 
the taller of the two approached the other, and said, as he 
opened his arms: 

“Dear little wife, embrace me, for now we are safe.” 

Then Madame de St. Luc, leaning forward and opening her 
thick cloak, placed her arms round the young man’s neck, and 
gave him the long and tender kiss which he had asked for. 
They stayed the night in the little village of Courville, four 
leagues only from Chartres, but which from its isolation seemed 
to them a secure retreat ; and it was on the following morning 
that they were, as we said, pursuing their way. This day, as 
they were more easy in their minds, they travelled no longer 
like fugitives, but like school-boys seeking for moss, for the 


= 


A TRAVELLING COMPANION. 121 


first few early flowers, enjoying the sunshine, and amused at 
everything, 

““Morbleu !” cried St. Luc, at last, “ how delightful it is to be 
free. Have you ever been free, Jeanne ?” 

“1?” cried she, laughing, “never; it is the first time I ever 
felt so. My father was suspicious, and my mother lazy. I never 
went out without a governess and two lackeys, so that I do not 
remember having ran on the grass, since, when a laughing child, 
I run in the woods of Méridor with my dear Diana, challenging 
her to race, and rushing through the branches. But you, dear 
St. Luc; you were free, at least ?” 

“T, free?” 

“Doubtless, a man.” 

“Never. Brought up with the Duc d’Anjou, taken by him 
to Poland, brought back to Paris, condemned never to leave 
him by the perpetual rule of etiquette ; pursued, if I tried to go 
away, by that doleful voice, crying, ‘St. Luc, my friend, I am 
ennuyé, come and amuse me.’ Free, with that stiff corset 
which strangled me, and that great ruff which scratched my 
neck! No, I have never been free till now, and I enjoy it.” 

“If they should catch us, and send us to the Bastille ?” 

“Tf they only put us there together, we can bear it.” 

“T donot think they would. But there is no fear, if you only 
knew Meéridor, its great oaks, and its endless thickets, its rivers, 
its lakes, its flower-beds and lawns; and, then, in the midst of 
all, the queen of this kingdom, the beautiful, the good Diana. 
And I know she loves me still; she is not capricious in her 
friendships. Think of the happy life we shall lead there.” 

“ Let us push on; I am in haste to get there,” and tney rode 
on, stayed the night at Mans, and then set off for Méridor. 
They had already reached the woods and thought themselves 
in safety, when they saw behind them a cavalier advancing at 
arapid pace. St. Luc grew pale. 

“Let us fly,” said Jeanne. 

“Yes ; let us fly, for there isa plume on that hat which dis- 
quiets me ; it is of a colour much in vogue at the court, and he 
looks to me like an ambassador from our royal master.” 

But to fly was easier to say than to do; the trees grew so 
thickly that it was impossible to ride through them but slowly, 
and the soil was so sandy that the horses sunk into it at every 
step. The cavalier gained upon them rapidly, and soon they 
heard his voice crying,— 


122 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“ Bh, monsieur, do not run away; I bring you something you 
have lost.” 

‘What does he say ?” asked Jeanne. 

‘“‘He says we have lost something.” 

“Eh! monsieur,” cried the unknown, again, “you left a 
bracelet in the hotel at Courville. Diable ! a lady’s portrait ; 
above all, that of Madame de Cossé._ For the sake of that dear 
mamma, do not run away.” 

“JT know that voice,” said St. Luc. 

“‘ And then he speaks of my mother.” 

“Tt is Bussy !” 

“The Comte de Bussy, our friend,” and they reigned up their 
horses. 

“Good morning, madame, 
her the bracelet. 

“Have you come from the king to arrest us ?” 

“ No, ma foi, I am not sufficiently his majesty’s friend for such 
a mission. No, I found your bracelet at the hotel, which showed 
me that you preceded me on my way.” 

“Then,” said St. Luc, ‘fit is chance which brings you on 
our path.” 

“Chance, or rather Providence.” 

Every remaining shadow of suspicion vanished before the 
sincere smile and bright eyes of the handsome speaker. 

“Then you are travelling ?” asked Jeanne. 

Cddam.-? 

“But not like us 2” f 

“Unhappily, no.” 

‘“T mean in disgrace. Where are you going ?” 

“Towards Angers, and you ?” 

“We also.” 

“Ah! I should envy your happiness if envy were not so vile.” 

“Eh! M. de Bussy, marry, and you will be as happy as we 
are,” said Jeanne; “it is so easy to be happy when you are loved.” 

“Ah ! madame, everyone is not so fortunate as you.” 

“ But you, the universal favourite.” 

“To be loved by everyone is as though you were loved by 
no one, madame.” 

“Well, let me marry you, and you will know the happiness 
you deny.” 


“Ido not deny the happiness, only that it does not exist 
for me.” 


p) 


’ said Bussy, laughing, and giving 





A TRAVELLING COMPANION. 123 


Shall I marry you ?” 

“Tf you marry me according to your taste, no ; if according 
to mine, yes.” 

*“* Are you in love with a woman whom you cannot marry ?” 

“Comte.” said Bussy, “beg your wife not to plunge daggers 
in my heart.” 

“Take care, Bussy; you will make me think it is with her 
you are in love.” 

“If it were so, you will confess, at least, that Iam a lover 
not much to be feared.” 

“True,” said St. Luc, remembering how Bussy had brought 
him his wife. ‘‘ But confess, your heart is occupied.” 

““T avow it.” 

““ By a love, or by a caprice 2” asked Jeanne. 

“‘ By a passion, madame.” 

“T will cure you.” 

“T do not believe it.” 

“T will marry you.” 

**T doubt it.” 

“And I will make you as happy as you ought to be.” 

* Alas! madame, my only happiness now is to be un- 
happy.” 

“T am very determined.” 

“And I also.” 

“Well, will you accompany us ?” 

“Where are you going ?” 

“To the chateau of Méridor. 

The blood mounted to the cheeks of Bussy, and then he 
grew so pale, that his secret would certainly have been betrayed, 
had not Jeanne been looking at her husband with a smile. 
Bussy therefore had time to recover himself, and said,— 

“Where is that ?” 

“Tt is the property of one of my best friends.” 

“One of your best friends, and—are they at home ?” 

“Doubtless,” said Jeanne, who was completely ignorant of 
the events of the last two months ; “ but have you never heard 
of the Baron de Méridor, one of the richest noblemen in 
France, and of——” 

“Of what ?” 

“ Of his daughter, Diana, the most beautiful girl possible ?” 

Bussy was filled with astonishment, asking himself by what 
singular happiness he found on the road people to talk to him 





124 CHICOT, THE JESTER: 


of Diana de Méridor, to echo the only thought which he had 
in his mind. 

“‘Ts this castle far off, madame 2” asked he. 

“ About seven leagues, and we shall sleep there to-night ; 
you will come, will you not ?” 

“Yes, madame.” 

“Come, that is already a step towards the happiness I pro- 
mised you.” 

“And the baron, what sort of a man is he 2” 

“A perfect gentleman, a preux chevalier, who, had he lived 
in King Arthur’s time, would have had a place at his round table.” 

“And,” said Bussy, steadying his voice, ‘to whom is his 
daughter married ?” 

* Diana married ?” 

“Would that be extraordinary ?” 

“Of course not, only I should have been the first to hear 
Ofte? 

Bussy could not repress a sigh. “Then,” said he, “ you 
expect to find Mademoiselle de Méridor at the chateau with 
her father 2” 

| We trustiso:” 


They rode on a long time in silence, and at last Jeanne - 


cried : 

“Ah! there are the turrets of the castle. Look, M. de Bussy, 
through that great leafless wood, which, in a month, will be sc 
beautiful; do you not see the roof ?” 

“Yes,” said Bussy, with an emotion which astonished him 
self; “and is that the chateau of Méridor 2” 


And he thought of the poor prisoner shut up in the Rue St. 
Antoine. 


CHAP TERS Xoxeunle 
THE OLD MAN. 


Two hours after they reached the castle. Bussy had been de- 
bating within himself whether or not to confide to his friends 
what he knew about Diana. But there was much that he could 
tell to no one, and he feared their questions, and besides, he 
wished to enter Méridor as a stranger. 





THE OLD MAN. 125 


Madame de St. Luc was surprised, when the porter sounded 
his horn to announce a visit, that Diana did not run as usual 
to meet them, but instead of her appeared an old man, bent 
and leaning on a stick, and his white hair flying in the wind. 
He crossed the drawbridge, followed by two great dogs, and 
when he drew quite near, said in a feeble voice,— 

“Who is there, and who does a poor old man the honour to 
visit him ” 

“Tt is I, Seigneur Augustin 
young woman. 

But the baron, raising his head slowly, said, ‘“‘ You? I do not 
see. Who is it ?” 

“Oh, mon Dieu !” cried Jeanne, “do you not know me? It 
is true, my disguise——” 

“Excuse me,” said the old man, “ but I can see little ; the 
eyes of old men are not made for weeping, and if they weep too 
much, the tears burn them.” 

“Must I tell you my name? I am Madame de St. Luc.” 

“I.do not know you.” 

“ Ah! but my maiden name was Jeanne de Cossé-Brissac.” 

“Ah, mon Dieu!” cried the old man, trying to open the gate 
with his trembling hands. Jeanne, who did not understand this 
strange reception, still attributed it only to his declining faculties ; 
but, seeing that he remembered her, jumped off her horse to 
embrace him, but as she did so she felt his cheek wet with tears. 

“Come,” said the old man, turning towards the house, with- 
out even noticing the others. The chateau had a strange sad 
look ; all the blinds were down, and no one was visible. 

“Js Diana unfortunately not at home ?” asked Jeanne. 

The old man stopped, and looked at her with an almost ter- 
rified expression. ‘‘ Diana!” said he. At this name the two 
dogs uttered a mournful howl. ‘“‘ Diana !” repeated the old 
man; ‘‘do you not, then, know ?” 

And his voice, trembling before, was extinguished in a sob. 

“But what has happened ?” cried Jeanne, clasping her hands. 

“Diana is dead !” cried the old man, with a torrent of tears. 

“ Dead !” cried Jeanne, growing as pale as death. 

“Dead,” thought Bussy ; “then he has let him also think her 
dead. Poor old man! how he will bless me some day !” 

“Dead !” cried the old man again ; ‘they killed her.” 

“Ah, my dear baron !” cried Jeanne, bursting into tears, and 
throwing her arms round the old man’s neck. 


1»? 


cried the laughing voice of the 


126 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“But,” said he at last, “though desolate and empty, the old 
house is none the less hospitable. Enter.” 

Jeanne took the old man’s arm, and they went into the dining- 
hall, where he sunk into his arm-chair. At last he said, “ You 
said you were married ; which is your husband ?” 

M. de St. Luc advanced and bowed to the old man, who tried 
to smile as he saluted him ; then, turning to Bussy, said, “ And 
this gentleman ?” 

“He is our friend, M. Louis de Clermont, Comte de Bussy 
d’Amboise, gentleman of M. le Duc d’Anjou.” 

At these words the old man started up, threw a withering 
glance at Bussy, and then sank back with a groan. 4 

“‘ What is it ?” said Jeanne. 

“Does the baron know you, M. de Bussy >” asked St. Luc. 

“Tt is the first time I ever had the honour of seeing M. de 
Méridor,” said Bussy, who alone understood the effect which 
the name of the Duc d’Anjou had produced on the old man. 

“ Ah! you a gentleman of the Duc d’Anjou !” cried the baron; 
“of that monster, that demon, and you dare to avow it, and 
have the audacity to present yourself here !” 

“Ts he mad ?” asked St. Luc of his wife. 

“ Grief must have turned his brain,” replied she, in terror. 

“Yes, that monster!” cried he again; “the assassin who 
killed my child! Ah, you do not know,” continued he, taking 
Jeanne’s hands ; “but the duke killed my Diana, my child—he 
killed her !” 

Tears stood in Bussy’s eyes, and Jeanne said : ‘ 

“Seigneur, were it so, which I do not understand, you cannot 
accuse M. de Bussy of this dreadful crime—he, who is the most 
noble and generous gentleman living. See, my good father, he 
weeps with us. Would he have come had he known how you 
would receive him? Ah, dear baron, tell us how this catastrophe 
happened.” 

“Then you did not know?” said the old man to Bussy. 

. Eh, mon Dieu ! no,” cried Jeanne, “we none of us knew.” 

My Diana is dead, and her best friend did not know it ! 
Oh, It 1s true! I wrote to no one; it seemed to me that every- 
thing must die with her. Well, this prince, this disgrace to 
France, saw my Diana, and, finding her so beautiful, had her 
carried away to his castle of Beaugé to dishonour her. But 
Diana, my noble and sainted Diana, chose death instead. She 
threw herself from the window into the lake, and they found 


THE OLD MAN. 124 


nothing but her veil floating on the surface.” And the old man 
finished with a burst of sobs which overwhelmed them all. 

“Oh, comte,” cried St. Luc, “ you must abandon this in- 
famous prince ; a noble heart like yours cannot remain friendly 
to a ravisher and an assassin !” 

But Bussy, instead of replying to this, advanced to M. de 
Meéridor. 

““M. le Baron,” said he, “ will you grant me the honour of a 
private interview ?” 

“Listen to M. de Bussy, dear seigneur,” said Jeanne; “ you 
will see that he is good and may help you.” 

“Speak, monsieur,” said the baron, trembling. 

Bussy turned to St. Luc and his wife, and said : 

“ Will you permit me ?” 

The young couple went out, and then Bussy said: “M. le 
Baron, you have accused the prince whom I serve in terms 
which force me to ask for an explanation. Do not mistake 
the sense in which I speak ; it is with the most profound sym- 
pathy, and the most earnest desire to soften your griefs, that I 
beg of you to recount to me the details of this dreadful event. 
Are you sure all hope is lost ?” 

“Monsieur, I had once a moment’s hope, A noble gentle- 
man, M. de Monsoreau, loved my poor daughter, and interested 
himself for her.” 

““M. de Monsoreau ! Well, what was his conduct in all this 2” 

“‘ Ah, generous; for Diana had refused his hand. He was 
the first to tell me of the infamous projects of the duke; he 
showed me how to baffle them, only asking, if he succeeded, 
for her hand. I gave my consent with joy; but alas! it was 
useless—he arrived too late—my poor Diana had saved herself 
by death !” 

“ And since then, what have you heard of him ?” 

“Tt is a month ago, and the poor gentleman has not dared 
to appear before me, having failed in his generous design.” 

“Well, monsieur,” said Bussy, “1 am charged by the Duc 
d’Anjou to bring you to Paris, where his highness desires to 
speak to you.” 

“1!” cried the baron, “I see this man! And what can the 
murderer have to say to me ?” 

“Who knows? To justify himself perhaps.” 

“No, M. de Bussy, no, I will not go to Paris; it would be too 
far away from where my child lies in her cold bed.” 


128 CHICOT, THE JESTER: 


“ M, le Baron,” said Bussy firmly, “I have come expressly to 
take you to Paris, and it is my duty to do so.” 

“ Well, I will go,” cried the old man, trembling with anger ; 
‘but woe to those who bring me. The king will hear me, or, 
if he will not, I will appeal to all the gentlemen of France. Yes, 
M. de Bussy, I will accompany you.” 

“And I, M. le Baron,” said Bussy, taking his hand, “ recom- 
mend to you the patience and calm dignity of a Christian noble- 
man. God is merciful to noble hearts, and you know not what 
He reserves for you. I beg you also, while waiting for that day, 
not to count me among your enemies, for you do not know what 
I will do for you. ‘Till to-morrow, then, baron, and early in the 
morning we will set off.” 

“T consent,” replied the old baron, moved by Bussy’s tone 
and words; “but meanwhile, friend or enemy, you are my 
guest, and I will show you to your room.” ' 


CHAPTER XXIV. 4 
HOW REMY-LE-HAUDOUIN HAD, IN BUSSY’S ABSENCE, ESTABLISHED 
A COMMUNICATION WITH THE RUE ST. ANTOINE. 


M. anp MapaMeE bE St. Luc could hardly recover from their 
surprise. Bussy holding secret interviews with M. de Méridor, 
and then setting off with him for Par's, appearing to take the 
lead in a matter which at first seemed strange and unknown to 
him, was to the young people an inexplicable phenomenon. In 
the morning the baron took leave of his guests, begging them 
to remain in the castle. Before Bussy left, however, he whis- 
pered a few words to Madame de St. Luc, which brought the 
colour to her cheeks, and smiles to her eyes. 

Te was a long way from Méridor to Paris, especially for the: 
old baron, covered with wounds from all his battles, and for 
his old horse, whom he called Jarnac. Bussy studied earnestly 
during the journey to find his way to the heart of the old man 
by his care and attentions, and without doubt he succeeded, 
for on the sixth morning, as they arrived at Paris, M. de Méridor 


Saia ¢ ¥ 


“Tt is singular, count, but I feel less unquiet at the end than 
at the beginning of my journey.” 





REMY COMMUNICATES WITH THE RUE ST. ANTOINE. 129 


“Two hours more, M. le Baron, and you shall have judged 
me as I deserve.” 

“Where are we going—to the Louvre ?” 

“Let me first take you to my hotel, that you may refresh 
yourself a little, and be fit to see the person to whom I am 
leading you.” 

The count’s people had been very much alarmed at his long 
absence, for he had set off without telling any one but Rémy. 
Thus their delight on seeing him again was great, and they all 
crowded round him with joyous exclamations. He thanked 
them, and then said, “‘ Now assist this gentleman to dismount, 
and remember that I look upon him with more respect than a 
primes,” 

When M. de Méridor had been shown to his room, and had 
had some refreshment, he asked if they should set out. 

“Soon, baron; and be easy—it will be a happiness for you 
as well as for us.” 

“You speak in a language which I do not understand.” 

Bussy smiled, and left the room to seek Rémy. 

“Well! dear Hippocrates !” said he, “is there anything 
new ?” 

“ Nothing ; all goes well.” 

“Then the husband has not returned ?” 

“Yes; he has, but without success. It seems there is a 
father who is expected to turn up to make the dénouement.” 

“Good,” said Bussy, ‘but how do you know all this ?” 

“‘ Why, monseigneur, as your absence made my position a sine- 
cure, I thought I would try to make some little use of my time; 
so I took some books and a sword to a little room which I hired 
at the corner of the Rue St. Antoine, from whence I could see 
the house that you know.” 

“Very good.” 

“ But as I feared, if I were constantly watching, to pass for a 
spy, I thought it better to fall in love.” 

Patmlove ?” 

_. “Qh yes, desperately with Gertrude; she is a fine girl, 
only two inches taller than myself, and who recounts capitally.” 

“* Recounts ?” 

“Yes; through her I know all that passes with her mistress. 
I thought you might not dislike to have communications with 
the house.” 

“Rémy, you are a good genius, whom chance, or rather 

9 


130 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


Providence, has placed in my way. Then you are received in 
u >?” 6. ee 

a eae I made rry entrance on the points of my toes, by 

the door you know.” : * 

“ And how did you manage It ee ai 

“Quite naturally. The day after you left, I waited at my 
door till the lady of my thoughts came out to buy provisions, 
which she does every morning. She recognised me, uttered a 
cry, and ran away.” 

Thene’ 

“Then I ran after her, but could hardly catch her, for she 
runs fast ; but still, petticoats are always a little in the way. 
‘Mon Dieu! cried she. ‘Holy Virgin! said L Sie 
doctor? ‘The charming housekeeper.’ She smiled, but said, 
‘You are mistaken, monsieur, I do not know you.’ ‘But I 
know you,’ I replied, ‘and for the last three days I have lived 
but for you, and I adore you so much, that I no longer live in 
the Rue Beautreillis, but at the corner of this street, and I 
changed my lodging only to see you pass in and out.’ ”. 

“So that now you are Y 

“ As happy as a lover can be—with Gertrude.” 

< Does she suspect you come from me ?” 

“ Ohno, how should the poor doctor know a great lord like 
M. de Bussy. No, I said,‘ And how is your young master ‘5 
‘What young master?” ‘The one I cured.” ‘He is not my 
master.’ ‘Oh! I thought, as he was in your mistress’s bed d 
‘Oh! no, poor young man! we have only seen him once since.’ 
‘Do you know his name?” ‘Oh! yes; he is the Seigneur de 
Bussy.’ ‘What! the brave Bussy? ‘Yes, himself.’ ‘And 
your mistress? ‘Oh! she is married! ‘Yes, but still she 
may think sometimes of a handsome young man when she has 
seen him lying wounded in her bed.’ ‘Oh, to be frank, I do 
not say she does not think of him; we talk of him very often.’ 
‘What do you say about him?’ I asked. ‘I recount all I hear 
about his prowess, and I have even taught her a little song about 
him, which she sings constantly.’ ” 


Bussy pressed the young man’s hand; he felt supremely 
happy. 











A LHE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 131 


, CHAPTER ‘XXYV. 
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER, 


On descending into the court, M. de Méridor found a fresh 
horse, which Bussy had had prepared for him ; another waited 
for Bussy, and attended by Remy, they started. As they went 
along, the baron could not but ask himself by what strange con- 
fidence he had accompanied, almost blindly, the friend of the 
prince to whom he owed all his misfortunes. Would it not have 
been better to have braved the Duc d’Anjou, and instead of 
following Bussy where it pleased him to lead, to have gone at 
once to the Louvre, and thrown himself at the feet of the king ? 
What could the prince say to him? How could he console 
him? Could soft words heal his wound ? 

When they stopped, “ What,” said the baron, “ does the Duc 
d’Anjou live in this humble house >?” 

“Not exactly, monsieur, but if it is not his dwelling, it is that 
of a lady whom he has loved.” 

A cloud passed over the face of the old gentleman. ‘“ Mon- 
sieur,” said he, “we provincials are not used to the easy 
manners of Paris; they annoy us. It seems to me that if 
the Duc d’Anjou wishes to see the Baron de Méridor, it ought 
to be at his palace, and not at the house of one of his mis- 
tresses.” 

““ Come, come, baron!” said Bussy, with his smile, which always 
carried conviction with it, “ do not hazard false conjectures. On 
my honour, the lady whom you are going to see is perfectly vir- 
tuous and worthy in all respects.” 

“Who is she then?” 

“She is—the wife of a friend of yours.” 

“ Really ! but then, monsieur, why did you say the duke 
loved her ?” 

“ Because I always speak truth. But enter, and you shal! see 
accomplished all I have promised you.” 

“Take care; I wept for my child, and you said, ‘Console 
yourself, monsieur, the mercy of God is great ;’ to promise 
me a consolation to my grief was almost to promise me a 
miracle.” 

“Enter, monsieur,” said Bussy, with his bright smile. 


(9 as 


132 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


Bussy went in first, and, running up to Gertrude, said, ‘Go 
and tell Madame de Monsoreau that M. de Bussy is here, and 
desires to speak to her. But,” continued he, in a low voice, “ not 
a word of the person who accompanies me.” 

“ Madame de Monsoreau !’ said the old man in astonishment. 
But as he feebly mounted the staircase, he heard the voice of 
Diana crying,— ; , 

“‘M. de Bussy, Gertrude? Oh! let him come in !” ; 

“That voice !” cried the baron, stopping. ‘‘Oh! mon Dieu! 
mon Dieu!” : 

At that moment, as the baron tremblingly held on to the banis- 
ter, and looked around him, he saw, at the top of the staircase, 
Diana, smiling, and more beautiful that ever. At this sight the 
old man uttered a cry and would have fallen, had he not caught 
hold of Bussy, who stood by him. 

“ Diana alive! Diana, oh, my God !” 

“Mon Dieu! M. de Bussy!’ cried Diana, running down, 
* what is the matter with my father ?” 

“He thought you dead, madame, and he wept, as a father 
must weep for a daughter like you.” ; 

“ How!” cried Diana; ‘‘and no one undeceived him ?” 

“No one.” 

“No,” cried the old man, recovering a little, “no one, not 
even M. de Bussy.” 

“ Ungrateful,” said Bussy. 

“Oh! yes! you are right ; for this moment repays me for 
all my griefs. Oh! my Diana! my beloved Diana! cried he, 
drawing his daughter to him with one hand, and extending the 
other to Bussy. But all at once he cried, ‘‘ But you said I was 
to see Madame de Monsoreau. Where is she ?” 

“ Alas! my father !” cried Diana. 

Bussy summoned up all his strength. “M. de Monsoreau is 
your son-in-law,” he said. - 

“What ! my son-in-law ! and every one—even you, Diana— 
left me in ignorance.” 

“T feared to write, my father ; he said my letters would fall 
into the hands of the prince. Besides, I thought you knew all.” 

“ But why all these strange mysteries ?” 

“Ah, yes, my father; why did M. de Monsoreau let you 
think me dead, and not let you know I was his wife 2” 

The baron, overwhelmed, looked from Bussy to Diana. “ M. 
de Monsoreau my son-in-law !” stammered he. 


” 


+";* 


THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. B 

“That cannot astonish you, father; did you not order me to 
marry him ?” 

“Ves, if he saved you.” 

“Well ! he did save me,” said Diana, sinking on to a chair, 
“not from misfortune, but from shame.” 

“Then why did he let me think you dead? I, who wept for 
you so bitterly. Why did he let me die of despair, when a single 
word would have restored me ?” 

“Oh! there is some hidden mystery,” cried Diana; “ my 
father, you will not leave me again ; M. de Bussy, you will pro. 
tect us.” 

“ Alas ! madame ! it belongs to me no more to enter into your 
family secrets. Seeing the strange manceuvres of your husband, 
I wished to bring you a defender; you have your father, I 
retire.” 

“ He is right,” said the old man, sadly. 

“ M. de Monsoreau feared the Duc d’Anjou, and so does M. 
de Bussy.” 

Diana cast a glance at the young man. He smiled and said, 
““M. le Baron, excuse, I beg, the singular question I am about 
to ask; and you also, madame, for I wish to serve you. M. le 
Baron, ask Madame de Monsoreau if she be happy in the mar- 
riage which she has contracted in obedience to your orders.” 

Diana burst into tears for her only answer. ‘The eyes of the 
baron filled also, for he began to fear that his friendship for 
M. de Monsoreau had tended to make his daughter unhappy. 

“Now !” said Bussy, “is it true that you voluntarily promised 
him your daughter’s hand ?” 

“Yes, if he saved her.” 

“‘ And he did save her. Then, monsieur, I need not ask if 
you mean to keep your promise.” 

“Tt is a law for all, and above all for gentlemen; you know 
that, M. de Bussy. My daughter must be his.” 

“ Ah!” cried Diana, “ would I were dead !” 

“‘ Madame,” said Bussy, “‘ you see I was right, and that I can 
do no more here. M. le Baron gives you to M. de Monso- 
reau, and you yourself promised to marry him when you should 
see your father again safe and well.” 

“Ah! you tear my heart, M. de Bussy,” cried Diana, ap- 
proaching the young man; “my father does not know that I 
fear this man, that I hate him; my father sees in him only my 
saviour, and I think him my murderer.” 


134 CHICOT, THE JESTER, 


“ Diana! Diana !” cried the baron, “he saved you.” 

“Ves,” cried Bussy, “but if the danger were less great 
than you thought ; what do we know? ‘There is some mystery 
in all this, which I must clear up. But I protest to you, that if 
I had had the happiness to be in the place of M. de Monso- 
reau, I would have saved your young and beautiful daughter 
without exacting a price for it.” 

“He loved her,” said M. de Méridor, trying to excuse him. 

“ And _I, then ” cried Bussy; and, although he stopped, 
frightened at what he was about to say, Diana heard and under- 
stood. 

“ Well!” cried she, reddening, “ my brother, my friend, can 
you do nothing for me?” 

“ But the Duc d’Anjou,” said the baron. 

“Tam not aware of those who fear the anger of princes,” 
said Bussy; “‘and besides, I believe the danger lies not with him, 
but with M. de Monsoreau.” 

“ But if the duke learns that Diana is alive, all is lost.” 

“T see,” said Bussy, “you believe M. de Monsoreau more 
than me. Say no more; you refuse my aid; throw yourself, 
then, into the arms of the man who has already so well merited 
your confidence. Adieu, baron; adieu, madame, you will see 
me no more.” 

“Oh!” cried Diana, taking his hand. ‘“ Have you seen me 
waver for an instant; have you ever seen me soften towards 
him? No. I beg you, on my knees, M. de Bussy, not to 
abandon me.” 


Bussy seized her hands, and all his anger melted away like 
snow before the sun. 

“Then so be it, madame,” said he ; “I accept the mission, 
and in three days—for I must have time to go to Chartres to 
the prince—you shall see me again.” Then, in a low tone to 
her, he said, “ We are allied against this Monsoreau; remember 


that it was not he who brought you back your father, and be 
faithful to me.” 








BROTHER GORENFLOT AWAKES. 135 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT AWOKE, AND THE RECEPTION HE 
MET WITH AT HIS CONVENT. 


CurcoT, after seeing with pleasure that Gorenflot still slept 
soundly, told M. Boutromet to retire and to take the light with 
him, charging him not to say anything of his absence. Now 
M. Boutromet, having remarked that, in all transactions be- 
tween the monk and Chicot, it was the latter who paid, had a 
great deal of consideration for him, and promised all he wished. 
Then, by the light of the fire which still smouldered, he wrapped 
Gorenflot once more in his frock, which he accomplished with- 
out eliciting any other signs of wakefulness than a few grunts, 
and afterwards making a pillow of the table-cloth and napkins, 
laid down to sleep by his side. Daylight, when it came, suc- 
ceeded in at last awakening Gorenflot, who sat up, and began 
to look about him, at the remains of their last night’s repast, 
and at Chicot who, although also awake, lay pretending to 
snore, while, in reality, he watched. 

“ Broad daylight !” said the monk. “Corbleu, I must have 
passed the night here. And the abbey! Oh, dear! How 
happy he is to sleep thus !” cried he, looking at Chicot. “Ah! 
he is not in my position,” and he sighed. ‘Shall I wake him 
to ask for advice? No, no, he will laugh at me; I can surely 
invent a falsehood without him. But whatever I invent, it will 
be hard to escape punishment. It is not so much the imprison- 
ment, it is the bread and water I mind. Ah! if I had but 
some money to bribe the brother jailer.” 

Chicot hearing this, adroitly slipped his purse from his 
pocket and put it underhim. ‘This precaution was not useless, 
for Gorenflot, who had been looking about him, now approached 
his friend softly, and murmuring : 

““Were he awake, he would not refuse me a crown, but his 
sleep is sacred, and I will take it,” advanced, and began feel- 
ing his pockets. “It is singular,” said he, “nothing in his 
pockets. Ah! in his hat, perhaps.” 

While he searched there Chicot adroitly emptied out his 
money, and stuffed the empty purse into his breeches’ pocket. 

“Nothing in the hat,” said the monk. “Ah! I forgot,” 


126 CHICOT, THE JESTEK. 


and thrusting in his hand, he drew from the pocket the empty 
purse. ‘ Mon Dieu,” cried he, “empty ! and who will pay the 
bill ?” 

This thought terrified him so much that he got up and made 
instantly for the door, through which he quickly disappeared. 
As he approached the convent, his fears grew strong, and seeing 
a concourse of monks standing talking on the threshold, he felt 
inclined to fly. But some of them approached to meet him; 
he knew flight was hopeless, and resigned himself. The 
monks seemed at first to hesitate to speak to him, but at last 
one said : 

“Poor dear brother !” 

Gorenflot sighed, and raised his eyes to Heaven. 

“You know the prior waits for you ?” 

“ Ah! mon Dieu !” 

“Oh! yes, he ordered that you should be brought to him as 
soon as you came in.” 

“T feared it,” said Gorenflot. And more dead than alive, 
he entered the convent, whose doors closed on him. They led 
him to the prior. Gorenflot did not dare to raise his eyes, 
finding himself alone with his justly irritated superior. 

“Ah! it is you at last,” said the abbé. 

“ Reverend sir a 

“What anxiety you have given me.” 

“ You are too good, my father,” said Gorenflot, astonished at 
this indulgent tone. 

“Vou feared to come in after the scene of last night ?” 

““Weontess it.” 4 

“‘ Ah, dear brother, you have been very imprudent.” 

“Let me explain, father.” 

“There is no need of explanations; your sally is 

“Oh! so much the better,” thought Gorenflot. 

“T understand it perfectly. A moment of enthusiasm carried 
you away; enthusiasm is a holy virtue, but virtues exaggerated 
become almost vices, and the most honourable sentiments, when 
carried to excess, are reprehensible.” 

“Pardon, my father,” said Gorenflot, timidly, “‘ but I do not 
understand. Of what sally do you speak ?” 

“Of yours last night.” 

“Out of the convent ?” 


“No; in it. I am as good a Catholic as you, but your 
audacity frightened me.” 








¢ 


BROTHER GORENFLOT AWAKES. 137 


Gorenflot was puzzled. ‘Was I audacious ?” asked he. 

“More than that—rash.” 

“Alas! you must pardon me, my father. I will endeavour 
to correct myself.” 

“Yes ; but meanwhile, I fear the consequences for you and 
for all of us. Had it passed among ourselves, it would have 
been nothing.” 

‘“* How, is it known to others ?” 

“ Doubtless ; you know well there were more than a hundred 
laymen listening to your discourse.” 

“My discourse !” said Gorenflot, more and more astonished. 

“J allow it was fine, and that the universal applause must have 
carried you on, but to propose to make a procession through 
the streets of Paris, with a helmet on your head and a partisan 
on your shoulder, appealing to all good Catholics, was rather 
too strong, you will allow.” 

Gorenflot looked bewildered. 

“‘ Now,” continued the prior, “this religious fervour, which 
burns so strongly in your heart, will injure you in Paris. I wish 
you therefore to go and expend it in the provinces.” 

“An exile !” cried Gorenflot. 

“Tf you remain here, much worse may happen to you, my 
dear brother.” 

“What P” 

“Perpetual imprisonment, or even death.” 

Gorenflot grew frightfully pale ; he could not understand how 
he had incurred all this by getting tipsy in an inn, and passing 
the night out of the convent. 

“‘ By submitting to this temporary exile, my dear brother, not 
only will you escape this danger, but you will plant the banner of 
our faith in the provinces, where such words are less dangerous 
than here, under the eyes of the king. Set off at once, then, 
brother ; perhaps the archers are already out to arrest you.” 

“The archers, I !” said Gorenflot. 

““T advise you to go at once.” 

“Tt is easy tc say ‘go,’ but how am I to live ?” 

Oh! nothing more easy. You will find plenty of partisans 
who will let you want for nothing. But go, in Heaven's name, 
and do not come back till you are sent for.” And the prior, 
after embracing him, pushed him tothe door. There he found 


all the community waiting for him, to touch his hands or his 
robe. 


138 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“ Adieu !” said one, embracing him, “you are a holy man ; 
do not forget me in your prayers. 

“Ta holy man !” thought Gorenflot. 

« Adieu, brave champion of the faith,” said another. 

“ Adieu, martyr,” said a third, “the light will soon come.” 

Thus was he conducted to the outside of the convent, and as 
he went away he exclaimed, “ Devil take me, but either they 
are all mad, or I am.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT REMAINED CONVINCED THAT HE. WAS 
A SOMNAMBULIST, AND BITTERLY DEPLORED THIS INFIRMITY. 


Unrit the day when this unmerited persecution fell on Brother 
Gorenflot, he had led a contemplative and easy life, diverting 
himself on occasions at the Corne d’Abondance, when he had 
gained a little money from the faithful. He was one of those 
monks for whom the world began at the prior of the convent, 
and finished at the cook. And now he was sent forth to seek 
for adventures. He had no money; so that when out of Paris 
and he heard eleven o’clock (the time for dinner at the convent) 
strike, he sat down in dejection. “His first idea was to return 
to the convent, and ask to be put in confinement, instead of 
being sent into exile, and even to submit to the discipline, pro- 
vided they would ensure him his repasts. His next was more 
reasonable. He would go to the Corne d’Abondance, send for 
Chicot, explain to him the lamentable situation into which he 
had helped to bring him, and obtain aid from this generous 
friend. He was sitting absorbed in these reflections, when he 
heard the sound of a horse’s feet approaching. In great fear, 
he hid behind a tree until the traveller should have passed ; 
but a new idea struck him. He would endeavour to obtain 
some money for his dinner. So he approached tremblingly, 
and said, “ Monsieur, if five paters, and five aves for the suc- 
cess of your projects would be agreeable to you——” 

“ Gorenflot !” cried the cavalier. 

““M. Chicot !” 

“Where the devil are you going ?” 





GORENFLOT CONVINCED HE IS A SOMNAMBULIST, 139 


“JT do not know. And you ?” 

“Oh! I am going straight before me.” 

pehyutar 2” 

“Till I stop. But you—what are you doing outside the 
barriers ?” 

“Alas! M. Chicot! I am proscribed,” said Gorenfiot, with 
an enormous sigh. 

“¢ What ?” 

“‘ Proscribed, I tell you. My brothers reject me from their 
bosom ; I am anathematised, excommunicated.” 

“Bah! what for ?” 

“ Listen, M. Chicot; you will not believe me, perhaps, but 
I do not know.” 

“ Perhaps you were met last night gadding about.” 

“Do not joke ; you know quite well what I was doing last 
night.” 

“Ves, from eight till ten, but not from ten till three.” 

“ How, from ten till three ?” 

“Yes, at ten you went out.” 

ce I pee 

“Ves, and I asked you where you were going.” 

“¢ And what did I say ?” 

“That you were going to pronounce a discourse.” 

“There was some truth in that,” murmured Gorenflot. 

“Yes, and you even told me part of it ; it was very long, and 
there were terrible things against the king in it.” 

“Baby, {” 

“So terrible, that I should not wonder if you were arrested 
for them.” 

““M. Chicot, you open my eyes; did I seem quite awake 
when I spoke?” 

“I must say you seemed very strange ; you looked like a 
man who talks in his sleep.” 

“Vet, I feel sure I awoke this morning at the Corne 
d’Abondance.” 

“Well, of course; you came in again at three o'clock, I 
know ; you left the door open, and made me cold.” 

Sttets true, then ?” 

“True! ask M. Boutromet.” 

“M. Boutromet ?” 

“Yes, he opened to you on your return. And you were so 
full of pride when you came in, that I said to you,—‘ lc, 


140 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


compere; pride does not become mortals, more especially 
monks.’” 

“ And of what was I proud ?” 

“ Of the success your discourse had met with, and the compli- 
ments paid to you by the Duc de Guise and M. de Mayenne.” 

“Now I understand all.” 

“That is lucky. Then you confess you went to the as- 
sembly ; what did you call it? Oh! the Holy Union.” 

Gorenflot groaned. “I am 2 somnambulist,” he said. 

“ What does that mean ?” 

“Tt means, that with me mind is stronger than matter ; so 
that while the body sleeps, the spirit wakes, and sometimes is 
so powerful that it forces the body to obey.” 

“ Ah! compere, that sounds much like magic; if you are 
possessed, tell me so frankly ; for, really, a man who walks and 
makes discourses in his sleep in which he attacks the king is 
not natural. Vade retro, Satanas !” 

“Then,” cried Gorenflot, “you abandon me also. Ah! I 
could not have believed that of you.” 

Chicot took pity on him. ‘“ What did you tell me just now ?” 
said he. 

“T donot know; I feel half mad, and my stomach is empty.” 

“You spoke of travelling.” 

“ Yes, the holy prior sends me.” 

“Where to ?” 

“Wherever I like.” 

“T also am travelling, and will take you with me.” 

Gorenflot looked bewildered. 

“Well! do you accept ?” continued Chicot. 

“Accept! I should think so. But have you money to 
travel with >” 

“Look,” said Chicot, drawing out his purse. 

Gorenflot jumped for joy. 

“How much ?” said he.- 

“One hundred and fifty pistoles.” 

“ And where are we going ?” 

“You shall see.” 

“When shall we breakfast ?” 

“ Tmmediately.” 

“What shall I ride ?” 

“Not my horse ; you wuld kill it.” 

“Then what must I do 2” 





: 
. 
: 
7 


BROTHER GORENFLOT TRAVELS UPON AN ASS. 141 


“ Nothing more simple ; I will buy you an ass.” 

“You are my benefactor, M. Chicot. Let the ass be strong. 
Now, where do we breakfast >?” 

“ Here; look over this door and read.” 

Gorenflot looked up, and saw, “ Here eggs, ham, eel-pies, 
and white wine may be had!” At this sight, Gorenflot’s whole 
face expanded with joy. 

“Now,” said Chicot, “go and get your breakfast, while I go 
and look for an ass for you.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT TRAVELLED UPON AN ASS, NAMED 
PANURGE, AND LEARNED MANY THINGS HE DID NOT KNOW 
BEFORE. 


Wuat made Chicot so indifferent to his own repast was, that 
he had already breakfasted plentifully. Therefore, he sat 
Gorenflot down to eggs and bacon, while he went among the 
peasants to look for an ass. He found a pacific creature, four 
years old, and something between an ass and a horse ; gave 
twenty-two livres for it, and brought it to Gorenflot, who was 
enchanted at the sight of it, and christened it Panurge. Chicot, 
seeing by the look of the table that there would be no cruelty 
in staying his companion’s repast, said,— 

<<Come, now we must go on; at Mélun we will lunch.” 

Gorenflot got up, merely saying, “ At Mélun, at Mélun.” 

They went on for about fcur leagues, then Gorenflot lay down 
on the grass to sleep, while Chicot began to calculate. 

“One hundred and twenty leagues, at ten leagues a day, 
would take twelve days.” It was as much as he could reason- 
ably expect from the combined forces of a monk and an ass. 
But Chicot shook his head. ‘It will not do,” he said, “if he 
wants to follow me, he must do fifteen.” 

He pushed the monk to wake him, who, opening his eyes, 
said, “ Are we at Mélun? I am hungry.” 

“Not yet, compere, and that is why I woke you; we must 
get on; we go too slow, ventre de biche !” 

“Oh, no,dear M. Chicot ; it is so fatiguing to go fast. Be- 


142 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


sides, there is no hurry : am I not travelling for the propagation 
of the faith, and you for pleasure? Well, the slower we go, 
the better the faith will be propagated, and the more you*will 
amuse yourself. My advice is, to stay some days at Mélun, 
where they make excellent eel-pies. What do you say, M. 
Chicot ?” 

“T say, that my opinion is to go as fast as possible ; not to 
lunch at Mélun, but only to sup at Monterau, to make up for 
lost time.” 

Gorenflot looked at his companion as if he did not under- 
stand. 

“Come, let us get on,” said Chicot. 

The monk sat still and groaned. 

“Tf you wish to stay behind and travel at your ease, you are 
welcome.” 

“No, no!” cried Gorenflot, in terror; “no, no, M. Chicot ; 
I Jove you too much to leave you !” 

“Then to your saddle at once.” 

Gorenflot got on his ass this time sideways, as a lady sits. 
saying it was more comfortable ; but the fact was that, fearing 
they were to go faster, he wished to be able to hold on both by 
mane and tail. 

Chicot began to trot, and the ass followed. The first moments 
were terrible for Gorenflot, but he managed to keep his seat. 
From time to time Chicot stood up in his stirrups and looked 
forward, then, not seeing what he looked for, redoubled his 
speed. 

“What are you looking for, dear M. Chicot ?” 

“Nothing ; but we are not getting on.” 

“Not getting on! we are trotting all the way.” 

“Gallop, then !” and he began to canter. 

Panurge again followed ; Gorenflot was in agonies 

“Oh, M. Chicot !” said he, as soon as he could speak, “do 


eae this travelling for pleasure? It does not amuse me 
at all. 


On fon.” 

“Tt is dreadful !” 

“Stay behind, then !” ' 

“ Panurge can do no more; he is stopping.” 

“Then adieu, compere !” 

Gorenflot felt half inclined to reply in the same manner, but 
he remembered that the horse, whom he felt ready to curse, 


‘ 








‘BROTHER GORENFLOT TRAVELS UPON AN ASS. 143 


bore on his back a man with a hundred and fifty pistoles in his 
pocket, so he resigned himself, and beat his ass to make him 
gallop once more. 

“T shall kill my poor Panurge !” cried he dolefully, thinking 
to move Chicot. 

“Well, kill him,” said Chicot quietly, “and we will buy 
another.” 

All at once Chicot, on arriving at the top of a hill, reined in 
his horse suddenly. But the ass, having once taken it into his 
head to gallop, was not so easily stopped, and Gorenflot was 
forced to let himself slide off and hang on to the donkey with 
all his weight before he could stop him. 

“¢ Ah, M. Chicot !” cried he, “what does it all mean? First 
we must gallop fit to break cur necks, and then we must stop 
short here !” 

Chicot had hidden himself behind a rock, and was eagerly 
watching three men who, about two hundred yards in advance, 
were travelling on quietly on their mules, and he did not reply. 

“ T am tired and hungry !” continued Gorenflot angrily. 

“ And so am I,” said Chicot ; ‘‘and at the first hotel we come 
to we will order a couple of fricasseed chickens, some ham, and 
a jug of their best wine.” 

“ Really, is it true this time ?” 

“‘T promise you, compere.” 

“« Well, then, let us go and seek it. Come, Panurge, you shall 
have some dinner.” 

Chicot remounted his horse, and Gorenflot led his ass. The 
much-desired inn soon appeared, but, to the surprise of Goren- 
flot, Chicot caused him to make a detour and pass round the 
back. At the front door were standing the three travellers. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT CHANGED HIS ASS FOR A MULE, 
AND HIS MULE EOR A HORSE. 


However, Gorenflot’s troubles were near their end for that day, 
for after the detour they went on a mile, and then stopped at a 
rival hotel. Chicot took a room which looked on to the high 


144. CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


road, and ordered supper. But even while he was eating he 
was constantly on the watch. However, at ten o’clock, as he 
had seen nothing, he went to bed, first, however, ordering that 
the horse and the ass should be ready at daybreak. 

“ At daybreak ?” uttered Gorenflot, with a deep sigh. 

“Yes; you must be used to getting up at that time.” 

“‘ Why so P” 

“ For matins.” 

“J had an exemption from the superior.” Chicot ordered 
Gorenflot’s bed to be placed in his room. With daylight he 
was up and at the window, and before very long he saw three 
mules coming along. He ran to Gorenflot and shook him. 

‘Can I not have a moment’s rest ?” cried the monk, who had 
been sleeping for ten hours. 

‘Be quick ; get up and dress, for we are going.” 

“ But the breakfast ?” 

“Ts on the road to Monterau.” 

“ Where is Monterau ?” 

“Tt is the city where we breakfast, that is enough for you. 
Now, I am going down to pay the bill, and if you are not ready 
in five minutes, I go without you.” 

A monk’s toilet takes not long ; however, Gorenflot took six 
minutes, and when he came down Chicot was starting. This 
day passed much like the former one, and by the third, Go- 
renflot was beginning to get accustomed to it, when towards the 
evening, Chicot lost all his gaiety. Since noon he had seen 
nothing of the three travellers ; therefore he was in avery bad 
humour. ‘They were off at daybreak and galloped till noon, 
but all in vain; no mules were visible. Chicot stopped at a 
turnpike, and asked the man if he had seen three travellers pass 
on mules. 

“Not to-day,” was the reply, “yesterday evening about seven.” 

“‘ What were they like >?” 

“They looked like a master and two servants !” 

“Tt was them,” said Chicot ; “ventre de biche! they have 
iwelve hours’ start of me. But courage !” 

“Listen, M. Chicot !” said Gorenflot, “my ass can do no 
more, even your horse is almost exhausted.” Chicot looked, 
and saw, indeed, that the poor animals were trembling from 
head to foot. 


“Well! brother,” said he, “ we must take a resolution. You 
must leave me.” 





BROTHER GORENFLOT’S CHANGES. 145 


“‘ Leave you ; why?” 

“ You go too slow.” 

“Slow ! why, we have galloped for five hours this morning.” 

“That is not enough.” 

“ Well, then, let us go on ; the quicker we go, the sooner we 
shall arrive, for I suppose we shall stop at last.” 

“ But our animals are exhausted.” 

“What shall we do then ?” 

“Leave them here, and take them as we come back.” 

“Then how are we to proceed ?” 

“ We will buy mules.” 

“Very well,” said Gorenflot with a sigh. Two mules were 
soon found, and they went so well that in the evening Chicot 
saw with joy those of the three travellers, standing at the door 
of a farrier’s. But they were without harness, and both master 
and lackeys had disappeared. Chicot trembled. “Go,” said 
he, to Gorenflot, ‘(and ask if those mules are for sale, and 
where their owners are.” Gorenflot went, and soon returned, 
saying that a gentleman had sold them, and had afterwards 
taken the road to Avignon. 

“ Alone ?” 

‘No, with a lackey.” 

“And where is the other lackey ?” 

“ He went towards Lyons.” 

“ And how did they go on?” 

“ On horses which they bought.” 

“Of whom ?” 

“Of acaptain of troopers who was here, and they sold their 
mules to a dealer, who is trying to sell them again to those 
Franciscan monks whom you see there.” 

“Well, take our two mules and go and offer them to the 
monks instead ; they ought to give you the preference.” 

‘But then, how shall we go on?” 

““On horseback, morbleu.” 

“ Diable !” 

“Oh! a good rider like you. You will find me again on the 
Grand Place.” Chicot was bargaining for some horses, when 
he saw the monk re-appear, carrying the saddles and bridles of 
the mules. 

“Oh! you have kept the harness ?” 

“cc Yes.” 


“ And sold the mules ?” 
10 


146 CHICOT, THE JASTEX 


“For ten pistoles each.” 

“Which they paid you ?” 

“‘ Here is the money.” 

“Ventre de biche! you are a great man, let us go on.” 

“ But I am thirsty.” 

“Well, drink while I saddle the beasts, but not too much.” 

“As bottle:” 

“Very well.” 

Gorenflot drank two, and came to give the rest of the money 
back to Chicot, who felt half inclined to give it to him, but 
reflecting that if Gorenflot had money he would no longer be 
obedient, he refrained. They rode on, and the next evening 
Chicot came up with Nicolas David, still disguised as a lackey, 
and kept him in sight all the way to Lyons, whose gates they all 
three entered on the eighth day after their departure from Paris. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


HOW CHICOT AND HIS COMPANION INSTALLED THEMSELVES AT 
THE HOTEL OF THE CROSS, AND HOW THEY WERE RE- 
CEIVED BY THE HOST. 


Cuicot watched Nicolas David into the principal hotel of the 
place, and then said to Gorenfiot, “Go in and bargain for a 
private room, say that you expect your brother, then come out 
and wait about for me, and I will come in when it is dark, and 
you can bring me straight to my room. Do you understand ?” 

“Perfectly? 

“Choose a good room, as near as possible to that of the 
traveller who has just arrived ; it must look on to the street, 
and on no account pronounce my name.” 

Gorenflot acquitted himself maryellously of the commission. 
Their room was only separated by a partition from that of 
Nicolas David. 


“You deserve a recompense,” said Chicot to him, “and you 
shall have sherry wine for supper.” 

“T never got tipsy on that wine ; it would be agreeable.” 

“You shall to-night. But now ramble about the town.” 

“ But the supper ?” 


in shall be ready against your return ; here is a crown mean- 
while. 


THE HOTEL OF THE GROSS. 147 


' Gorenflot went off quite happy, and then Chicot made, with 
a gimiet, a hole in the partition at about the height of his eye. 
Through this, he could hear distinctly all that passed, and he 
could just see the host talking to Nicolas David, who was pro- 
fessing to have been sent on a mission by the king, to whom he 
professed great fidelity. The host did not reply, but Chicot 
fancied he could see an ironical smile on his lip whenever the 
king’s name was mentioned. 

“Ts he a leaguer ?” thought Chicot ; “I will find out.” 

When the host left David he came to visit Chicot, who said, 
“Pray sit down, monsieur, and before we make a definitive 
arrangement, listen to my history. You saw me this morning 
with a monk ?” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“Silence ! that monk is proscribed.” 

“What ! is he a disguised Huguenot ?” 

Chicot took an offended air. ‘ Huguenot, indeed! he is 
my relation, and I have no Huguenot relations. On the con- 
trary, he is so fierce an enemy of the Huguenots, that he has 
fallen into disgrace with his majesty Henri III., who protects 
them, as you know.” 

The host began to look interested. “Silence,” said he. 

“Why, have you any of the king’s people here ?” 

“‘T fear so: there is a traveller in there.” 

“Then we must fly at once, for proscribed, menaced——” 

‘‘Where will you go ?” 

“We have two or three addresses given to us by an inn- 
keeper we know, M. la Huritre.” 

“Do you know La Huriere ?” 

“Ves, we made his acquaintance on the night of St. Bar- 
tholomew.” 

‘Well, I see you and your relation are holy people; I also 
know La Huritre. ‘Then you say this monk——” 

“‘ Had the imprudence to preach against the Huguenots, and 
with so much success that the king wanted to put him in prison.” 

“And then 2?” 

“ Ma foi, I carried him off.” 

“And you did well.” 

“M. de Guise offered to protect him.” 

“ What! the great Henri ?” 

“ Himself ; but I feared civil war.” 

“Tf you are friends of M. de Guise, you know this ;” and he 

10o—2 


148 CHICOT, THE JESTER, 


made a sort of masonic sign by which the leaguers recognised 
each other, ; 

Chicot, who had seen both this and the answer to it twenty 
times during that famous night, replied, “ And you this ?” 

“Then,” said the innkeeper, “ you are at home here; my 
house is yours, look on me as a brother, and if you have no 
money——” 

Chicot drew out his purse. The sight of a well-filled purse 
is always agreeable, even to a generous host. 

“Our journey,” continued Chicot, “‘is paid for by the trea- 
surer of the Holy Union, for we travel to propagate the faith. 
Tell us of an inn where we may be safe.” 

“Nowhere more so than here, and if you wish it, the otker 
traveller shall turn out.” 

“Oh! no; it is better to have your enemies near, that you 
may watch them. But, what makes you think he is our enemy?” 

“Well! first he came disguised as a lackey, then he put on 
an advocate’s dress, and J am sure he is no more an advocate 
than he is a lackey, for I saw a long rapier under his cloak. 
‘Then, he avowed he had a mission from the king !” 

“From Herod, as I call him.” 

** Sardanapalus.” 

‘* Bravo !” 

“Ah! I see we understand each other.” 

“Then we are to remain here >?” 

‘“‘T should think so.” 

“Not a word about my relation.” 

“ Of course not.” ‘ 

“Nor of me.” 

“Oh,no! But hush! here is some one.” 

“Oh, it is the worthy man himself!” 

The host turned to Gorenflot, and made the sign of the 
leaguers. Gorenflot was struck with terror and astonishment. 

“Reply, my brother,” said Chicot; “he is a member.” 

“* Of what ?” 

“Of the Holy Union,” said Bernouillet, in a low tone. 

“You see all is safe ; reply,” said Chicot. 

Gorenflot replied, to the great joy of the innkeeper. 

. “But,” said Gorenflot, who did not like the conversation, 
you promised me some sherry.” 

_ “Sherry, Malaga, Alicant—every wine in my cellar is at your 
disposal.” 


ee 


en ee 


LAE HOTEL OF THE CROSS, 14g 


Gorenflot looked at Chicot in amazement. 

For three following days Gorenflot got drunk, first on sherry, 
next on Malaga, then on Alicant ; afterwards he declared he 
liked Burgundy best, and returned to that. Meanwhile, Chicot 
had never stirred from his room, and had constantly watched 
Nicolas David, who, having appointed to meet Pierre de Gondy 
at this inn, would not leave the house. On the morning of the 

‘sixth day he declared himself ill, and the next day worse. Ber- 
nouillet came joyfully to tell Chicot. 

“What! do you think him in danger ?” 

“High fever, my dear brother ; he is delirious, and tried to 
strangle me and beat my servants. ‘The doctors do not under- 
stand his complaint.” 

“Have you seen him ?” 

“Yes ; I tell you he tried to strangle me.” 

‘* How did he seem ?” 

“Pale and furious, and constantly crying out.” 

‘What ?” 

“Take care of the king! they want to hurt the king! Then 
he constantly says that he expects a man from Avignon, and 
wishes to see him before he dies.” 

As for Gorenflot, he grew visibly fatter every day, so much 
so, that he announced to Chicot with terror one day that the 
staircase was narrowing. Neither David, the League, nor re- 
ligion occupied him; he thought of nothing but how to vary 
his dinner and wine, so that Bernouillet often exclaimed in 
astonishment, ‘To think that that man should be a torrent of 
eloquence !” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


HOW THE MONK CONFESSED THE ADVOCATE, AND THE 
ADVOCATE THE MONK. 


Ar last M. Bernouillet came into Chicot’s room, laughing im- 


moderately. ; 
“He is dying,” said he, “and the man has arrived from 
Avignon.” 
“Have you seen him ?” 
** Of course.” 


iso CHICOT, THE JESTER 


“‘ What is he like ?” 

“Tittle and thin.” 

“Tt is he,” thought Chicot; and he said, ‘“‘ Tell me about his 
arrival,” 

“An hour ago I was in the kitchen, when I saw a great horse, 
ridden by a little man, stop before the door. ‘Is M. Nicolas 
here ?? asked he. ‘ Yes, monsieur,’said I. ‘ Tell him that the 
person he expects from Avignon is here.’ ‘ Certainly, monsieur, 
but I must warn you that he is very ill.’ ‘ All the more reason 
for doing my bidding at once.’ ‘ But he has a malignant fever.’ 
‘Oh, pray, then, be quick? ‘How! you persist ? ‘TI persist.’ 
‘In spite of the danger! ‘In spite of everything I must see 
him.’ So I took him to the room, and there he is now. Is it 
not odd ?” 

“Very droll.” 

“T wish I could hear them.” 

<(GorIn:” 

“He forbade me to go in, saying he was going to confess.” 

“Listen at the door.” 

Bernouillet went, and Chicot went also to his hole: but they 
spoke so low that he could hear nothing, and in a few minutes 
Gondy rose and took leave. Chicot ran to the window, and 
saw a lackey waiting with a horse, which M. de Gondy mounted 
and rode off. 

“If he only has not carried off the genealogy. Never mind, 
I shall soon catch him if necessary ; but I suspect it is left here. 
Where can Gorenflot be?” 

M. Bernouillet returned, saying, “He is gone.” 

“The confessor ?” 

“He is no more a confessor than I am,” 

“Will you send me my brother as soon as he comes in.” 

“Even if he be drunk 2” 

“ Whatever state he is in.” ~ 

_ Bernouillet went, and Chicot remained in a state of inde- 
cision as to what to do, for he thought, “If David is really so 
ill, he may have sent on the despatches by Gondy.” Presently 
he heard Gorenflot’s voice, singing a drinking song as he came 
up the stairs. d 

“Silence, drunkard !” said Chicot, 

“ Drunkard, indeed !” 


“Vies.: but come here and speak seriously, if you can.” 
“What is it now 2” cf 








THE MONK CONFESSES THE ADVOCATE. 151 


“Tt is, that you never think of the duties of your profession, 
“that you wallow in greediness and drunkenness, and let religion 
go where it pleases.” 

Gorenflot looked astonished. ‘1!’ he gasped. 

“Yes, you; you are disgraceful to see ; you are covered with 
mud ; you have been drunk in the streets.” 

“Tt is too true !” 

“If you go on so, I will abandon you.” 

“Chicot, my friend, you will not do that? Am I very guilty ?” 

“‘ There are archers at Lyons.” 

“Oh, pity ! my dear protector, pity !” 

“Are you a Christian or not ?” 

“‘T not a Christian !” 

“Then do not let a neighbour die without confession.” 

“Tam ready, but I must drink first, for I am thirsty.” 

Chicot passed him a jug of water, which he emptied. 

“ Now, who am I to confess ?” 

“Our unlucky neighbour who is dying.” 

“Tet them give him a pint of wine with honey in it.” 

“He needs spiritual aid as well as temporal. Go to him.” 

“Am I fit?” said Gorenflot, timidly. 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ Then I will go.” 

“Stay ; I must tell you what to do.” 

“Oh! I know.” 

“You do not know what I wish.” 

“What you wish ?” 

“Tf you execute it well, I will give you one hundred pistoles 
to spend here.” 

““What must I do ?” 

“Listen; your robe gives you authority; in the name of 
God and the King, summon him to give up the papers he has 
just received from Avignon.” 

“What for ?” 

“To gain one hundred pistoles, stupid.” 

“Ah! true; I go.” 

“ Wait a minute. He will tell you he kas confessed.” 

“ But if he has ?” 

“Tell him he lies; that the man who has just left him is no 
confessor, but an intriguer like himself.” 

“ But he will be angry.” 

‘What does that matter, since he is dying ?” 


152 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


aire! 

“Well ; one way or the other, you must get hold of those 
papers.” 

“Tf he refuses ?” 

“ Refuse him absolution, curse him, anathematise him—— 

‘Oh, I will take them by force.” 

“Good ; and when you have got them, knock on the wall.” 

“And if I cannot get them P” 

“ Knock also.” 

‘Then, in any case I am to knock ?” 

MEST 

Gorenflot went, and Chicot placed his ear to the hole in the 
wall. When Gorenflot entered, the sick man raised himself in 
his bed, and looked at him with wonder. 

“Good day, brother,” said Gorenflot. 

“ What do you want, my father?’ murmured the sick man, in 
a feeble voice. 

‘My son, I hear you are in danger, and I come to speak to 
you of your soul.” 

“Thank you, but I think your care is needless ; I feel better.” 

“ You think so ?” 

coq ambsure Of it. ? 

“Tt isa ruse of Satan, who wishes you to die without cor- 
fession.” 

“Then he will be deceived, for I have just confessed.” 

“To whom P” 

“To a worthy priest from Avignon.” 

‘‘ He was not a priest.” ‘ 

“Not !” 

Nox 

* How do you know ?” 

*T knew him.” 

“ You knew the man who has just gone ?” 

eYVes ; and as you are not better, and this man was not a 
priest, you must confess.” 

“Very well,” replied the patient, in a stronger voice, “but I 
will choose to whom I will confess.” 
: W You will have no time to send for another priest, and I am 

ere. 
‘‘ How! no time, when I tell you I am getting well 2” 


? 


Gorenflot shook his head. “TI tell you, my son, you are’ 


condemned by the doctors and by Providence ; you may think 





THE MONK CONFESSES THE ADVOCATE, {53 


it cruel to tell you so, but it is what we must all come to sooner 
or later. Confess, my son, confess.” 

“ But I assure you, father, that I feel much stronger.” 

‘“‘ A mistake, my son, the lamp flares up at the last, just before 
it goes out. Come, confess all your plots, your intrigues, and 
machinations !” 

““My intrigues and plots!” cried David, frightened at this 
singular monk, whom he did not know, but who seemed to 
know him so well. 

“Yes; and when you have told all that, give me up the 
papers, and perhaps God will let me absolve you.” 

“What papers?” cried the sick man, in a voice as strong as 
though he were quite well. 

“The papers that the pretended priest brought you from 
Avignon.” 

“ And who told you that he brought me papers ?” cried the 
patient, putting one leg out of bed. 

Gorenflot began to feel frightened, but he said firmly, “ He 
who told me knew well what he was saying ; give me the papers, 
or you shall have no absolution.” 

“JT laugh at your absolution,” cried David, jumping out of 
bed, and seizing Gorenflot by the throat, “and you shali see if 
I am too ill to strangle you.” 

Gorenflot was strong, and he pushed David back so violently 
that he fell into the middle of the room. But he rose furious, 
and seizing a long sword, which hung on the wall behind his 
clothes, presented it to the throat of Gorenflot, who sank on a 
chair in terror. 

“Tt is now your turn to confess,” said he, “speak, or you die.” 

“Oh !” cried Gorenflot, “then you are not ill—not dying.” 

“Tt is not for you to question, but to answer.” 

“To answer what ?” 

“Who are you ?” 

‘You can see that.” 

“Your name ?” 

“ Brother Gorenflot.” 

“You are then a real monk ?” 

“ T should think so.” 

“What brings you to Lyons?” 

“T am exiled.” 

“What brought you to this inn ?” 

“Chance.” 


154 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“‘ How long have you been here ?” 

“ A fortnight.” 

“Why did you watch me ?” 

‘“*T did not.” 

‘“‘How did you know that I had the papers ?” 

‘“‘ Because I was told so.” 

“Who told you P” 

“He who sent me here.” 

“Who was that ?” 

“T cannot tell you.” 

“You must.” 

“Oh! oh! I will cry out.” 

“ And I will kill.” 

Gorenflot cried out, and a spot of blood appeared on the 
point of the sword. 

“ His name?” cried David. 

“Oh! I can hold out no more.” 

« Speak.” 

“It was Chicot,” 

“The king’s jester !” 

“ Himself.” 

“‘ And where is he ?” 

‘“ Here !” cried a voice, and Chicot appeared at the door with 
a drawn sword in his hand. 


CHAPTER XXIL f 
HOW CHICOT USED HIS SWORD. 


Nicotas Davin, in recognising him whom he knew to be his 
mortal enemy, could not repress a movement of terror, during 
which Gorenflot slipped a little to the side, crying out, “ Help, 
friend ! come to my aid !” 

_ “ Ah, Monsieur David, it is you !” said Chicot; “I am de- 
lighted to meet you again!” ‘Then, turning to Gorenflot, he 
said, “ My good Gorenflot, your presence as monk was very 
necessary Just now, when we believed monsieur dying ; but now 
that he is so well, it is with me he must deal ; therefore, do me 
the favour to stand sentinel on the threshold, and prevent any 
one from coming in to interrupt our little conversation.” Goren- 


CHICOT USES HIS SWORD. 155 


flot, who asked no better than to go, was soon out of the room; 
but David, having now recovered from his surprise, and con- 
fident in his skill as a swordsman, stood waiting for Chicot, with 
his sword in his hand and a smile on his lips. 

“‘ Dress yourself, monsieur,” said Chicot ; “I do not wish to 
take any advantage of you. Do you know what I have come 
to seek in this room ?” 

“The rest of the blows which I have owed you on account 
of the Duc de Mayenne, since that day when you jumped so 
quickly out of the window.” 

“No, monsieur; I know the number, and will return them. 
Be easy. What I have come for is a certain genealogy which 
M. Pierre de Gondy took to Avignon, without knowing what he 
carried, and, equally in ignorance, brought back to you just 
now.” 

David turned pale. “ What genealogy ?” he said. 

“That of M. de Guise, who descends, as you know, in a direct 
line from Charlemagne.” 

* Ah, you are a spy! I thought you only a buffoon.” 

“Dear M. David, I will be both if you wish it: a spy to hang 
you, and a buffoon to laugh at it after.” 

* To hang me!” 

“ High and dry, monsieur; I hope you do not lay claim to 
be beheaded like a gentleman.” 

* And how will you do it ?” 

“Oh, very easily ; I will relate the truth, for I must tell you, 
dear M. David, that I assisted last month at the meeting held 
in the convent of St. Genevieve.” 

au!” 

“Yes ; I was in the confessional in front of yours, and it was 
very uncomfortable there, especially as I was obliged to wait 
to go out until all was finished. ‘Therefore I heard all, saw 
the coronation of M. d’Anjou, which was not very amusing ; but 
then the genealogy was delightful.” 

“Ah! you know about the genealogy ?” cried David, biting 
his lips with anger. 

“Yes, and I found it very ingenious, especially that part about 
the Salic law ; only it is a misfortune to have so much intellect, 
one gets hung for it; therefore, feeling myself moved with tender 
pity for so ingenious a man, I said to myself, ‘Shall I let this 
brave M. David be hung ?” and I took the resolution of travelling 
with, or rather behind, you. I followed you, therefore, not with. 


156 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


out trouble, and at last we arrived at Lyons. I entered the 
hotel an hour after you, and have been in the adjoining room ; 
look, there is only a partition between, and, as you may imagine, 
I did not travel all the way from Paris to Lyons to lose sight of 
you now. I pierced a little hole, through which I had the plea- 
sure of watching you when I liked, and I confess I gave myself 
this pleasure several times a day. At last you fell ill; the host 
wished to get rid of you, but you were determined to wait here 
for M. de Gondy. I was duped by you at first, for you might 
really have been ill, so I sent you a brave monk, to excite you 
to repentance; but, hardened sinner that you are, you tried to 
kill him, forgetting the Scripture maxim, ‘ He who strikes with 
the sword shall perish with the sword.’ ‘Then I came to you, 
and said, ‘ We are old friends ; let us arrange the matter.’” 

“In what manner ?” 

“Tt would be a pity that such a man as you should disappear 
from the world; give up plots, trust to me, break with the Guises, 
give me your papers, and, on the faith of a gentleman, I will 
make your peace with the king.” 

“While, on the contrary, if I do not give them to you ?” 

‘Ah! then, on the faith of a gentleman, I will kill you! But 
if you give them to me, all shall be forgotten. You do not be- 
lieve me, perhaps, for your nature is bad, and you think my 
resentment can never be forgotten. But, although it is true 
that I hate you, I hate M. de Mayenne more; give me what 
will ruin him, and I will save you. And then, perhaps, you 
-will not believe this either, for you love nothing ; but I love the 
king, foolish and corrupted as he is, and I wish that he should 
reign tranquilly—which is impossible with the Mayennes and 
the genealogies of Nicolas David. Therefore, give me up the 


genealogy, and I promise to make your name and your for- 
tune.” 


David never moved. 

“Well,” said Chicot, “TI see all that I say to you is but wasted 
breath ; therefore, I go to get you hanged. Adieu, M. David,” 
and he stepped backwards towards the door. 

“And you think I shall let you go out,” cried the adyocate. 
“No, no, my fine spy; no, no, Chicot, my friend, these who 
eed of the genealogy must die. Those who menace me must 

ie. 

“You put me quite at my ease: I hesitated only because I 
am sure to kill you. Crillon, the other day, taught me a par- 











CHICOT USES HIS SWORD. 157 


ticular thrust, only one, but that will suffice. Come, give 
me the papers, or I will kill you ; and I will tell you how— 
I will pierce your throat just where you wished to bleed 
Gorenflot.” 

Chicot had hardly finished, when David rushed on him with 
a savage laugh. ‘The two adversaries were nearly matched in 
height, but Chicot, who fenced nearly every day with the 
king, had become one of the most skilful swordsmen in the 
kingdom. , David soon began to perceive this, and he retreated 
a step. 

“Ah! ah!” said Chicot, “now you begin to understand. 
Once more ; the papers.” 

David, for answer, threw himself again upon Chicot, and a 
new combat ensued. At last Chicot called out,— 

“ Here is the thrust,” and as he spoke, he thrust his rapier 
half through his throat. 

David did not reply, but fell at Chicot’s feet, pouring out a 
mouthful of blood. But by a natural movement he tried to 
drag himself towards his bed, so as to defend his secret to the 
last. 

“Ah!” cried Chicot, “I thought you cunning, but I see 
you are a fool. I did not know where the papers where, and 
you have shown me”—and while David rolled in the agonies of 
death, he ran to the bed, raised the mattress, and found under 
it a roll of parchment. At the moment in which he unrolled it 
to see if it was the document he sought, David raised himself in 
a rage and then fell back dead. Chicot saw with joy that he 
held what he wanted. ‘The Pope had written at the bottom, 
“ Fiat ut voluit Deus ; Deus jura hominum fecit.” After placing 
it in his breast, he took the body of the advocate, who had 
died without losing more blood, the nature of the wound 
making him bleed inwardly, put it back in the bed, turned the 
face to the wall, and, opening the door, called Gorenflot. 

“ How pale you are !” said the monk, as he entered. 

“Ves, the last moments of that man caused me some emo- 
tion.” 

“Then he is dead ?” 

175 Yes.” 

“He was so well just now.” 

“Too well; he swallowed something difficult of digestion, 
and died of it.” 


158 CHIGOT, THESES ME ie 


“The wretch wanted to strangle me, a holy man, and he is 
punished for it.” 2% 

“ Pardon him, you are a Christian.” 

“TJ do, although he frightened me much.” 

“You must do more; you must light the lamps, and say some 
prayers by his bed.” 

© Why 2” 

“That you may not be taken prisoner as his murderer.” 

“TJ, a murderer! it was he who tried to murder me.” 

“Mon Dieu! yes, and as he could not succeed, his rage made 
him break a blood-vessel. But till your innocence is established 
they might annoy you much.” 

“T fear you are right.” 

“Then do what I tell you. Install yourself here, and recite 
all the prayers you know, or do not know; then, when evening 
comes, go out and call at the ironmonger’s at the corner of the 
street. There you will find your horse; mount him, and take 
the road to Paris; at Villeneuve-le-Roi sell him, and take Panurge 
back.” 

“Ah! that good Panurge; Ishall be delighted to see him 
again. But how am I to live?” 

Chicot drew from his pocket a handful of crowns and put 
them into the large hand of the monk. 

“Generous man!” cried Gorenflot. “Let me stay with you 
-at Lyons; I love Lyons.” 

“But I do not stay here ; I set off at once, and travel too 
rapidly for you to follow me.” 

“So be it, then.” 


Chicot installed the monk by the bed, and went downstairs 
to the host. 


“M. Bernouillet,” said he, “a great event has taken place in 
your house.” 

“What do you mean ?” 

“ The hateful royalist, the enemy of our religion upstairs, re- 
ceived to-day a messenger from Rome.” 

“T know that : it was I who told you.” 

“Well, our holy father, the Pope, had sent him to this 


conspirator, who, however, probably did not suspect for what 
purpose.” 


“ And why did he come ?” 


“Go upstairs, lift up the bedclothes, look at his neck, and 
you will see.” 





DANJOU LEARNS DIANA WAS NOT DEAD. 159 


“You frighten me.” 

“Tsay no more. The Pope did you honour in choosing 
your house for the scene of his vengeance.” 

Then Chicot put ten crowns into the hand of the host, and 
went down to the stable to get out the horses. M. Bernouillet 
went up and found Gorenflot praying. He looked as directed, 
and found the wound. 

“‘ May every enemy of our religion die thus,” said he to Go- 
renflot. 

“ Amen,” replied the monk. 

These events passed about the same time that Bussy brought 
the Baron de Meéridor back to his daughter. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


HOW THE DUC D’ANJOU LEARNED THAT DIANA WAS NOT 
DEAD. 


THe month of April had arrived. The great cathedral of 
Chartres was hung with white, and the king was standing bare- 
footed in the nave. ‘The religious ceremonies, which were for 
the purpose of praying for an heir to the throne of France, were 
just finishing, when Henri, in the midst of the general silence, 
heard what seemed to him a stifled laugh. He turned round 
to see if Chicot were there, for he thought no one else would 
have dared to laugh at such a time. It was not, however, 
Chicot who had laughed at the sight of the two chemises of 
the Holy Virgin which were said to have such a prolific power, 
and which were just being drawn from their golden box ; but it 
was a cavalier who had just stopped at the door of the church, 
and who was making his way with his muddy boots through 
the crowd of courtiers in their penitents’ robes and _ sacks. 
Seeing the king turn, he stopped for a moment, and Henri, irri- 
tated at seeing him arrive thus, threw an angry glance at him. 
The new-comer, however, continued to advance until he reached 
' the velvet chair of M. le Duc d’Anjou, by which he knelt down. 
He, turning round, said, “‘ Bussy !” 

“Good morning, monseigneur.” 

“* Are you mad 2” 

se Why sor” 


160 CHICOT, THE JESTER. f 


“To come here to see this nonsense.” 

“‘ Monseigneur, I wish to speak to you at once.” 

““Where have you been for the last three weeks P” 

“That is just what I have to tell you.” 

“Well, you must wait until we leave the church.” 

“So much the worse.” 

“Patience, here is the end.” 

Indeed, the king was putting on one of these chemises, and 
the queen another. ‘Then they all knelt down, and afterwards 
the king, taking off his holy tunic, left the church. 

“Now, monseigneur,” said Bussy, “shall we go to your 
house ?” 

“Yes, at once, if you have anything to tell me.” 

“Plenty of things which you do not expect.” 

When they were in the hotel the duke said, “ Now sit down 
and tell me all; I feared you were dead.” 

“Very likely, monseigneur.” 

“You left me to look after my beautiful unknown. Who is 
this woman, and what am I to expect ?” 

“You will reap what you have sown, monseigneur—plenty of 
shame.” 

“What do you mean ?” cried the duke. 

“What I said.” 

“Explain yourself, monsieur ; who is this woman ?” 

“T thought you had recognised her.” 

“Then it was her ?” 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

“You saw her ?” 

eeVCS:4 

“And she spoke to you 2” 

“Certainly. Doubtless you had reason to think her dead, 
and you perhaps hoped she was so.” 

The duke grew pale. 


“ Yes, monseigneur,” continued Bussy, “ although you pushed 
to despair a young girl of noble race, she escaped from death; 
but do not breathe yet, do not think yourself absolved, for, 
in preserving her life, she found a misfortune worse than 
death.” 

“What is it ? what has happened to her 2” 

“Monseigneur, a man preserved her honour and saved her 


life, but he made her pay for this service so dearly that she 
regrets his having rendered it,” 





DANJCU LEARNS DIANA WAS NOT DEAD. 161 


*¢ Finish.” 

“Well, monseigneur, Mademoiselle de Méridor, to escape 
becoming the mistress of the Duc d’Anjou, has thrown herself 
into the arms of a man whom she detests, and is now Madame 
de Monsoreau.” 

At these words the blood rushed furiously into the duke’s face. 

“ Ts this true ?” said he. 

“ Pardieu ! I said it,” said Bussy, haughtily. 

“1 did not mean that; I did not doubt your word, bussy, I 
wondered only if it were possible that one of my gentlemen had 
had the audacity to interfere between me and a woman whom 
I honoured with my love.” 

“¢ And why not ?” 

‘‘Then you would have done so?” 

“TJ would have done better ; I would have warned you that 
your honour was being lost.” 

“Listen, Bussy,” said the prince, becoming calmer, ‘‘I do 
not justify myself, but M. de Monsoreau has been a traitor 
towards me.” 

“ Towards you ?” 

“Ves, he knew my intentions.” 

*“* And they were ?” 

“To try and make Diana love me.” 

“Love you!” 

‘Yes, but in no case to use violence.” 

“Those were your intentions ?” said Bussy, with an ironical 
smile. 

“Certainly, and these intentions I preserved to the last, 
although M. de Monsoreau constantly combated them.” 

“Monseigneur, what do you say! This man incited you to 
dishonour Diana ?”’——“ Yes.” 

“By his counsels ?” 

“ By his letters. Would you like to see them ?” 

“Oh! if I could believe that !” 

“You shall see.” 

And the duke, opening a little cabinet, and taking out a 
letter, said, “Since you doubt your prince’s words, read.” 

Bussy took it and read,— 


“* MONSEIGNEUR, 
“Be quite easy; the coup-de-main can be executed without 
risk, for the young person sets off this evening to pass a week 
’ young § to | 
II 


162 CHICOT, THE JESTER. & 


with an aunt who lives at the chateau of Lude: I ch 
myself with it, and you need take no trouble. As for the 
scruples of the young lady, be sure that they will vanish in the 
presence of your highness : meanwhile I act; and this evening 
she will be at the chateau of Beauge. 
“ Your highness’s respectful servant, 
““BRYAN DE MONSOREAU.” 


‘Well, what do you say, Bussy ?” 

“T say that you are well served, monseigneur.” 

“You mean betrayed.” 

“ Ah, true; I forgot the end.” 

“The wretch! he made me believe in the death of a 
woman fd 

“Whom he stole from you ; it is black enough.” 

“How did he manage ?” 

“He made the father believe you the ravisher, and offered 
himself to rescue the lady, presented himself at the chateau of 
Beaugé with a letter from the Baron de Méridor, brought a 
boat to the windows, and carried away the prisoner; then shut 
her up in the house you know of, and by constantly working 
upon her fears, forced her to become his wife.” 

“Ts it not infamous?” 

“‘Only partly excused by your conduct, monseigneur.” 

“*Ah! Bussy, you shall see how I will revenge myself !” 

“Princes do not revenge themselves, they punish,” said 
Bussy. ‘ 

** How can I punish him ?” 

** By restoring happiness to Madame de Monsoreau.” 

“But can I 2” 

“ Certainly.” ’ 

‘How?’ 

“By restoring her to liberty. The marriage was forced, 
therefore it is null.” 

You are right.” 

“Get it set aside, then, and you will have acted like a gen- 
tleman and a prince.” 

“* Ah, ah !” said the prince, ‘‘ what warmth ! you are interested 
in it, Bussy.” ; 

“I! not at all, except that I do not wish people to say that 


Lee ce Clermont serves a perfidious prince and a man without 
onour.” 


























“panjou LEARNS DIANA WAS NOT DEAD. 163 


“Well, you shall see. But how to do it ?” 

“Nothing more easy ; make her father act.” 

“ But he is buried in Anjou.” 

“ Monseigneur, he is here in Paris.” 

*“* At your house ?” 

“No, with his daughter. Speak to him, monseigneur, that 
he may see in you, not what he does now, an enemy, but a pro- 
tector—that he who now curses your name may bless you.” 

“ And when can I see him ?” 

* As soon as you return to Paris.” 

“Very well.” 

“It is agreed, then ?” 

sees. 

“On your word as a gentleman ?” 

“On my faith as a prince.” 

“ And when do you return ?” 

“ This evening; will you accompany me ?” 

“No, I go first; where shall I meet your highness ?” 

‘To-morrow, at the king’s levée.” 

“J will be there, monseigneur.” 

Bussy did not lose a moment, and the distance that took the 
duke fifteen hours to accomplish, sleeping in his litter, the young 
man, who returned to Paris, his heart beating with joy and love, 
did in five, to console the baron and Diana the sooner. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


HOW CHICOT RETURNED TO THE LOUVRE, AND WAS RECEIVED LY 
THE KING HENRI III. 


ALL was quiet at the Louvre, for the king, fatigued with his 
pilgrimage, had not yet risen, when two men presented them- 
selves together at the gates. : 
““M. Chicot,” cried the younger, “ how are you this morning?” 
“Ah, M. de Bussy.” 
“You come for the king’s levée, monsieur ?” 
““ And you also, I presume ?” 

“No; I come to see M. le Duc d’Anjou. You know I have 
not the honour of being a favourite of his majesty’s.” 
“The reproach is for the king, and not for you.” 

II—2 


454 CHICOT, THE JESTER 


“Do you come from far? I heard you were travelling.” 

“Yes, I was hunting. And you?” 

“Yes, I have been in the provinces; and now will you be 
good enough to render me a service ?” 

“T shall be delighted.” 

“Well, you can penetrate into the Louvre, wnile I remain in 
the antechamber ; will you tell the duke I am waiting for him ?” 

“Why not come in with me ?” 

“The king would not be pleased.” 

“* Bah !” 

“‘Diable! he has not accustomed me to his most gracious 
smiles.” 

‘“‘ Henceforth, for some time, all that will change.” 

“Ah, ah! are you a necromancer, M. Chicot ?” 

“Sometimes ; come, take courage, and come in with me.” 

They entered together; one went towards the apartments of 
the Duc d’Anjou, and the other to those of the king. 

Henri was just awake, and had rung, and a crowd of valets 
and friends had rushed in; already the chicken broth and the 
spiced wine were served, when Chicot entered, and without 
saying a word, sat down to eat and drink. 

“Par la mordieu !” cried the king, delighted, although he 
affected anger; “it is that knave of a Chicot, that fugitive, that 
vagabond !” 

‘What is the matter, my son ?” said Chicot, placing himself 
on the immense seat, embroidered with fleur-de-lys, on which 
the king was seated. é 

“‘Here is my misfortune returned,” said Henri; “for three 
weeks I have been so tranquil.” 

“Bah ! you always grumble. One would think you were one 
of your own subjects. Let me hear, Henriquet, how you have 
governed this kingdom in my absence.” 

coChicot” 

“Have you hung any of your curled gentlemen? Ah! par- 
don, M. Quelus, I did not see you.” 

“‘Chicot, I shall be angry,” said the king ; but he ended by 
Jaughing, as he always did; so he went on: “But what has 

ecome of you? Do you know that I have had you sought for 
in ail the bad parts of Paris ?” 

“Did you search the Louvre ?” 

Just then M. de Monsoreau entere 





CHICOT RETURNS TO THE LOUVRE. 165, 


“ Ah! it is you, monsieur,” said the king ; “when shall we 
hunt again ?” 

‘‘When it shall please your majesty ; I hear there are plenty 
of wild boars at St. Germain en Laye.” 

“The wild boar is dangerous,” said Chicot ; “‘ King Charles: 
IX., I remember, was nearly killed by one. And then spears: 
are sharp also ; is it not so, Henri? and do you know your chief 
huntsman must have met a wolf not long ago ?” 

“Why so ?” 

“‘ Because he has caught the likeness; it is striking.” 

M. de Monsoreau grew pale, and turning to Chicot, said : 

“‘M. Chicot, I am not used to jesters, having lived little at 
court, and I warn you that before my king I do not like to be 
humiliated, above all when I speak of my duties.” 

“Well, monsieur,” said Chicot, “we are not like you, we 
court people laughed heartily at the last joke.” 

‘“¢ And what was that ?” 

“¢ Making you chief huntsman.” 

Monsoreau looked daggers at Chicot. 

“Come, come,” said Henri, “let us speak of something, 
else.” 

“Ves, let us speak of the merits of Notre Dame de 
Chartres.” 

“‘Chicot, no impiety.” 

“JT impious! it is you, on the contrary; there were two 
chemises accustomed to be together, and you separated them: 
Join them together and a miracle may happen.” 

This allusion to the estrangement of the king and queen 
made every one laugh. 

Monsoreau then whispered to Chicot, “ Pray withdraw with 
me into that window, I wish to speak to you.” When they 
were alone, he went on, ‘‘ Now, M. Chicot, buffoon as you are, 
a gentleman forbids you ; do you understand ? forbids you to 
laugh at him, and to remember that others may finish what M. 
de Mayenne began.” 

“Ah! you wish me to become your creditor, as I am his, 
and to give you the same place in my gratitude.” 

“Tt seems to me that, among your creditors, you forget the 
principal.” 
en I have generally 2 good memory. Who may it 

““M. Nicolas David.” 


166 CHICOT, TIE JESTER. 


“Oh! you are wrong ; he is paid.” 

At this moment Bussy entered. 

“ Monsieur,” said he to the count, “ M. le Duc d’Anjou de- 
sires to speak with you.” 

“ With me ?” 

“With you, monsieur.” 

“Do you accompany me ?” 

“No, I go first, to tell the duke you are coming,” and he 
rapidly disappeared. 

“‘ Well?” said the duke. 

“ He is coming.” 

“ And he suspects nothing ?” 

“Nothing; but if he did, what matter? is he noc your 
creature? Does he seem to you less guilty than he did yes- 
terday ?” 

“No, a hundred times more so.” 

“He has carried off, by treason, a noble young girl, and 
married her equally treasonably ; either he must ask for the 
dissolution of the marriage himself, or you must do it for him.” 

““T have promised.” 

“‘T have your word ?” 

“You have.” 

“Remember that they know and are anxiously waiting.” 

“She shall be free, Bussy ; I pledge my word.” 

Bussy kissed the hand which had signed so many false pro- 
mises. As he did so, M. de Monsoreau entered, and Bussy 
went to the corridor, where were several other gentlemen. 
Here he had to wait as patiently as might be for the result of 
this interview, on which all his future happiness was at stake. 
He waited for some time, when suddenly the door of the duke’s 
room opened, and the sound of M. de Monsoreau’s voice made 
Bussy tremble, for it sounded almost joyful. Soon the voices 
approached, and Bussy could see M. de Monsoreau bowing and 
retiring, and he heard the duke say : 

“ Adieu, my friend.” 

“My friend ?” murmured Bussy. 

Then Monsoreau said, “ Your highness agrees with me that 
publicity is best ?” 

“Yes, yes ; an end to all mysteries.” 

“Then this evening I will present her to the king.” 

“Do so; I will prepare him.” 

“Gentlemen,” then said Monsoreau, turning towards those 


a 





CHICOT RETURNS TO THE LOUVRE. 167 


in the corridor, “allow me to announce to you a secret ; mon- 
selgneur permits me to make public my marriage with Ma- 
demoiselle Diana de Méridor, who has been my wife for more 
than a month, and whom I intend this evening to present to 
the court.” 

Bussy, who had been hidden behind a door, staggered, and 
almost fell at this unexpected blow. However, he darted a 
glance of contempt at the duke, towards whom he made a 
step, but he, in terror, shut his door, and Bussy heard the key 
turn in the lock. Feeling that if he stayed a moment longer 
he should betray before every one the violence of his grief, he 
ran down stairs, got on his horse, and galloped to the Rue St. 
Antoine. The baron and Diana were eagerly waiting for him, 
and they saw him enter pale and trembling. 

“Madame,” cried he, “hate me, despise me; I believed I 
could do something and I can do nothing. Madame, you are 
now the recognised wife of M. de Monsoreau, and are to be 
presented this evening. I am a fool—a miserable dupe, or 
rather, as you said, M. le Baron, the duke is a coward and a 
villain.” 

And leaving the father and daughter overcome with grief, he 
rushed wildly away. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 
WHAT PASSED BETWEEN M. DE MONSOREAU AND THE DUKE. 


Ir is time to explain the duke’s sudden change of intention with 
regard to M. de Monsoreau. When he first received him, it was 
with dispositions entirely favourable to Bussy’s wishes. 

“Vour highness sent for me ?” said Monsoreau. 

“‘You have nothing to fear, you who have served me so well, 
and are so much attached to me. Often you have told me of 
the plots against me, have aided my enterprises, forgetting your 
own interests, and exposing your life.” 

“Your highness——” 

“ Even lately, in this last unlucky adventure 

“What adventure, monseigneur ?” 

“This carrying off of Mademoiselle de Méridor—poor young 
creature !” 


5 
? 





168 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“ Alas Y? murmured Monsoreau. 

“ You pity her, do you not ?” said the duke. 

“ Does not your highness ?” 

“1! you know how I have regretted this fatal caprice. And, 
indeed, it required all my friendship for you, and the remem- 
brance of all your good services, to make me forget that without 
you I should not have carried off this young girl.” 

Monsoreau felt the blow. ‘‘ Monseigneur,” said he, “ your 
natural goodness leads you to exaggerate ; you no more caused 
the death of this young girl than I did.” 

“‘ How so?” 

“You did not intend to use violence to Mademoiselle de 
Méridor.” 

‘“‘ Certainly not.” 

“Then the intention absolves you ; it is a misfortune, nothing 
more.” 

“ And besides,” said the duke, looking at him, “ death has 
buried all in eternal silence.” 

The tone of his voice and his look struck Monsoreau. ‘‘ Mon- 
seigneur,” said he, after a moment's pause, “shall I speak 
frankly to you?” 

“Why should you hesitate ?” said the prince, with astonish. 
ment mingled with hauteur. 

“Indeed, I do not know, but your highness has not thought 
fit to be frank with me.” 

“ Really !” cried the duke, with an angry laugh. 

“‘ Monseigneur, I know what your highness meant to say 
to me.” 

“¢ Speak, then.” 

“Your highness wished to make me understand that perhaps 
Mademoiselle de Méridor was not dead, and that therefore 
those who believed themselves her murderers might be free — 
from remorse.” 

“Oh, monsieur, you have taken your time before making this 
consoling reflection to me. You are a faithful servant, on my 
word ; you saw me sad and afflicted, you heard me speak of the 
wretched dreams I had since the death of this woman, and you 
let me live thus, when even a doubt might have spared me so 
much suffering. How must I consider this.conduct, monsieur ?” 

“‘Monseigneur, is your highness accusing me ?” 

“Traitor !” cried the duke, “‘you have deceived me; you have 
taken from me this woman whom I loved-——” 





M. DE MONSOREAU AND THE DUKE. 169 


Monsoreau turned pale, but did not lose his proud, calm 
look. ‘It is true,” said he. 

“True, knave !” 

“ Please to speak lower, monseigneur; your highness forgets 
that you speak to a gentleman and an old servant.” 

The duke laughed. 

‘“‘ My excuse is,” continued he, “ that I loved Mademoiselle 
de Meéridor ardently.” 

“]T, also,” replied Francois, with dignity. 

“Tt is true, monseigneur ; but she did not love you.” 

“‘ And she loved you 2” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“You lie! you know you lie! You used force as I did; 
only I, the master, failed, while you, the servant, succeeded by 
treason.” 

“‘ Monseigneur, I loved her.” 

“What do I care ?” 

“ Monseigneur, take care. I loved her, and I am not a ser- 
vant. My wife is mine, and no one can take her from me, not 
even the king. I wished to have her, and I took her.” 

“You took her! Well! you shall give her up.” 

“You are wrong, monseigneur. And do not call,” continued 
he, stopping him, “ for if you call once—if you do me a public 


oP) 


injury—— 
“You shall give up this woman.” 

2 ag ae 

““Give her up! she is my wife before God——” 


“Tf she is your wife before God, you shall give her up before 
‘men. I know all, and I will break this marriage, I tell you. 
To-morrow, Mademoiselle de Méridor shall be restored to her 
father ; you shall set off into the exile I impose on you; you 
shall have sold your piace ; these are my conditions, and take 
care, or I will break you as I break this glass.” And he threw 
down violently a crystal cup. 

“T will not give up my wife, I will not give up my place, and 
I will remain in France,” replied Monsoreau. 

“You will not ?” 

“No, I will ask my pardon of the King of France—of the 
king anointed at the Abbey of St. Genevitve; and this new 
sovereign will not, I am sure, refuse the first request proffered to 
him.” Francois grew deadly pale, and nearly fell. 

“Well, well,” stammered he, “this request, speak lower—I 
listen.” 


170 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 

“JT will speak humbly, as becomes the servant of your high- 
ness. A fatal love was the cause of all. Love 1s the most im- 
perious of the passions. ‘To make me forget that your highness 
had cast your eyes on Diana, I must have been no longer master 


of myself.” 

‘Tt was a treason.” 

“ Do not overwhelm me, monseigneur; I saw you rich, young 
and happy, the first Christian pvince in the world. For you are 
so, and between you and supreme rank there is now only a 
shadow easy to dispel. I saw all the splendour of your future, 
and, comparing your proud position with my humble one, I 
said, ‘ Leave to the prince his brilliant prospects and splendid 
projects, scarcely will he miss the pearl that I steal from his 
royal crown.’” 

“Comte! comte !” 

“You pardon me, monseigneur, do you not ?” 

At this moment the duke raised his eyes, and saw Bussy’s 
portrait on the wall. It seemed to exhort him to courage, and 
he said, ‘‘No, I cannot pardon you; it is not for myself that I 
hold out, it is because a father in mourning—a father unworthily 
deceived—cries out for his daughter ; because a woman, forced 
to marry you, cries for vengeance against you ; because, in a 
word, the first duty of a prince is justice.” 

“ Monseigneur, if justice be a duty, gratitude is not less so ; 
and a king should never forget those to whom he owes his 
crown. Now, monseigneur, you owe your crown to me.” 

“ Monsoreau !” cried the duke, in terror. ‘ 

“But I cling to those only who cling to me.” 

“T canaot—you are a gentleman, you know I cannot ap- 
prove of what you have done. My dear count, this one more 
sacrifice ; I will recompense you for it; I will give youall you 
ashe” 

“Then your highness loves her still !” cried Monsoreau, pale 
with jealousy. 

““No, I swear I do not.” 

“Then, why should 1? I ama gentleman; who can enter 
into the secrets of my private life ?” 

“But she does not love you.” 

“What matter.” 

“Do this for me, Monsoreau.” 

“T cannot.” 

“Then 





” commenced the duke, who was terribly perplexed. 





iM. DE MONSOREAU AND THE DUKE. 171 


“Reflect, sire.” 

“You will denounce me ?” 

“To the king dethroned for you, yes; for if my new king 
destroyed my honour and happiness, I would return to the old.” 

“Tt is infamous.” 

“True, sire ; but I love enough to be infamous.” 

“It is cowardly.” 

“Ves, your majesty, but I love enough to be cowardly. 
Come, monseigneur, do something for the man who has served 
you so well.” 

““What do you want ?” 

“ That you should pardon me.” 

“T will.” 

“That you should reconcile me with M. de Méridor.” 

“T will try.” 

“That you will sign my marriage contract with Mademoiselle 
de Méridor.” 

“Ves,” said the prince, in a hoarse voice. 

“And that you shall honour my wife with a smile when I 
shall present her to his majesty.” 

ewes ois) tliat all Pr” 

“ All, monseigneur.” 

“You have my word.” 

“ And you shall keep the throne to which I hawe raised you. 
—There remains now, only,” thought Monsoreau, “to find out 
who told the duke.” 


C Ree ek XV 
CHICOT AND THE KING. 


‘THAT same evening M. de Monsoreau presented his wife in the 
queen’s circle. Henri, tired, had gone to bed, but after sleeping 
three or four hours, he woke, and feeling no longer sleepy, pro- 
ceeded to the room where Chicot slept, which was the one 
formerly occupied by St. Luc; Chicot slept soundly, and the 
king called him three times before he woke. At last he opened 
his eyes and cried out, “ What is it ?” 

“Chicot, my friend, it is I.” 

“Yow; who ?” 


pees 
‘s 


172 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“7, Henri.” : : 

“ Decidedly, my son, the pheasants must have disagreed with 
you; I warned you at supper, but you would eat so much of 
them, as well as of those crabs.” 

“No; I scarcely tasted them.” 

“Then you are poisoned, perhaps. Ventre de biche! how 
pale you are !” 

‘Tt is my mask,” said the king. 

“Then you are not ill ?” 

No.7 

“Then why wake me ?” 

“ Pecause I am annoyed.” 

“ Annoyed ! if you wake a man at two o’clock in the morning, 
at least you should bring him a present. Have you anything 
for me ?” 

“No; I come to talk to you.” 

“That is not enough.” 

“ Chicot, M. de Morvilliers came here last evening.” 

““ What for P” 

“To ask for an audience. What can he want to say to me, 
Chicot ?” 

“What ! is it only to ask that, that you wake me?” 

“ Chicot, you know he occupies himself with the police.” 

“No; I did not know it.” 

“ Do you doubt his watchfulness ?” 

“Yes, I do, and I have my reasons.” 

“What are they ?” 

“Will one suffice you ?” ‘ 

“Yes, if it be good.” 

“And you will leave me in peace afterwards ?” 

“Certainly: ? 

“Well, one day—no, it was one evening, I beat you in the 
Rue Foidmentel; you had with you Quelus and Schomberg.” 

“You beat me ?” | 

“Yes, all three of you.” 

“‘ How, it was you ! wretch !” 

“I, myself,” said Chicot, rubbing his hands, “do I not nit 
hard >” 

“ Wretch !” 

“Vou confess, it was true 2?” 

“You know it is, villain.” 

“Did you send for M. de Morvilliers the next day 2” 





CHICOT AND THE KING. 173 


“Vou know I did, for you were there when he came.” 

“And you told him the accident that had happened to one 
“of your friends ?” 

paves.” 

“ And you ordered him to find out the criminal ?” 

“ Yes. ? 

“id he find him ?” 

“cc No.” 

“Well, then, go to bed, Henri; you see your police is bad.” 
And, turning round, Chicot refused to say another word, and 
was soon snoring again. 

The next day the councilassembled. It consisted of Quelus, 
Maugiron, D’Epernon, and Schomberg. Chicot, seated at the 
head of the table, was making paper boats, and arranging them 
in a fleet. M. de Morvilliers was announced, and came in, 
looking grave. 

“ Am I,” said he, “ before your majesty’s council ?” 

“Ves, before my best friends; speak freely.” 

“Well, sire, I have a terrible plot to denounce to your 
majesty.” 

“A plot!” cried all. 

“Yes, your majesty.” 

“Oh, is it a Spanish plot ?” 

At this moment the Duc d’Anjou, who had been summoned 
to attend the council, entered. 

“My brother,” said Henri, “M. de Morvilliers comes to 
announce a plot to us.” 

The duke threw a suspicious glance round him. “Is it pos- 
sible ?” he said. 

“ Alas, yes, monseigneur,” said M. de Morvilliers. 

“Tell us all about it,” said Chicot. 

“Ves,” stammered the duke, ‘tell us all about it, monsieur.” 

“T listen,” said Henri. 

“Sire, for some time I have been watching some malcontents, 
but they were shopkeepers, or junior clerks, a few monks and 
students.” 

“That is not much,” said Chicot. 

“J know that malcontents always make use either of war or 
of religion.” 

“Very sensible !” said the king. 

“T put men on the watch, and at last I succeeded in per- 
suading a man from the provosty of Paris to watch the 


174 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


preachers, who go about exciting the people against your ma- 
jesty. They are prompted by a party hostile to your majesty, 
and this party I have studied, and now I know their hopes,” 
added he, triumphantly. “Ihave men in my pay, greedy, it 
is true, who, for a good sum of money, promised to let me 
know of the first meeting of the conspirators.” 

“Oh! never mind money, but let us hear the aim of this 
conspiracy.” 

“Sire, they think of nothing less than a second St. Bartho- 
lomew.” 

“* Against whom ?” 

“ Against the Huguenots.” 

“ What have you paid for your secret ?” said Chicot. 

“One hundred and sixty thousand livres.” 

Chicot turned to the king, saying, “If you like, for one thou- 
sand crowns, I will tell you all the secrets of M. de Morvilliers.” 

“Speak.” 

“It is simply the League, instituted ten years ago; M. de 
Morvilliers has discovered what every Parisian knows as well 
as his ave.” 

“Monsieur,” interrupted the chancellor. 

“T speak the truth, and I will prove it,” cried Chicot. 

“Tell me, then, their place of meeting.” 

“Firstly, the public streets ; secondly, the public streets.” 

“M. Chicot is joking,” said the chancellor ; “tell me their 
rallying sign.” 

“They are dressed like Parisians, and shake their legs when 
they walk.” 

_A burst of laughter followed this speech ; then M. de Mor- 
villiers said, “They have had one meeting-place which M. 
Chicot does not know of.” 

“Where >” asked the king, 

“The Abbey of St. Genevitve.” 

“Impossible !” murmured the duke. 

“Tt is true,” said M. de Morvilliers, triumphantly. 

‘““What did they decide ?” asked the king. 

“That the Leaguers should choose chiefs, that every one 
should arm, that every province should receive a deputy from 
the conspirators, and that all the Huguenots cherished by his 
majesty (that was their expression) ‘ 

The king smiled. 

“Should be massacred on a given day.” 








CHICOT AND THE-KING. 175 


“Ts that all>?” said the duke. 

“No, monseigneur.” 

“JT should hope not,” said Chicot ; “if the king got only 
that for 160,000 livres, it would be a shame.” 

«¢ There are chiefs——” 

The Duc d’Anjou could not repress a start. 

“What !” cried Chicot, “‘a conspiracy that has chiefs! how 
wonderful! But we ought to have more than that for 160,000 
livres.” 

“Their names ?” asked the king. 

“Firstly, a fanatic preacher; I gave 10,000 livres for his 
name.” 

“Very well.” 

«A monk called Gorenflot.” 

“‘ Poor devil !” said Chicot. 

“ Gorenflot 2” said the king, writing down the name; “after- 
wards © 

“Oh!” said the chancellor, with hesitation, ‘‘that is all.” 
And he looked round as if to say, “ If your majesty were alone, 
you should hear more.” 

“Speak, chancellor,” said the king, “I have none but friends 
here.” 

“Oh ! sire, I hesitate to pronounce such powerful names.” 

“ Are they more powerful than I am ?” cried the king. 

“No, sire; but one does not tell secrets in public.” 

“‘ Monsieur,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “ we will retire.” 

The king signed to the chancellor to approach him, and to 
the duke toremain. M. de Morvilliers had just bent over the 
king to whisper his communication, when a great clamour was 
heard in the court of the Louvre. The king jumped up, but 
Chicot, running to the window, called out, “ It is M. de Guise 
entering the Louvre.” 

“ The Duc de Guise,” stammered the Duc d’Anjou. 

“ How strange that he should be in Paris,” said the king. 
reading the truth in M. de Morvilliers’ look. “ Was it of him 
you were about to speak ?” he asked. 

“Ves, sire; he presided over the meeting.” 

“« And the others ?” 

“T know no more.” 

“You need not write that name on your tablets! you will 
not forget it,” whispered Chicot. 

The Duc. de Guise advanced, smiling, to see the king. 





176 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 
WHAT M. DE GUISE CAME TO DO AT THE LOUVRE. 


Beutnp M. de Guise there entered a great number of officers, 
courtiers, and gentlemen, and behind them a concourse of the 
people ; an escort less brilliant, but more formidable, and it 
was their cries that had resounded as the duke entered the 
Louvre. 

“Ah! it is you, my cousin,” said the king ; “what a noise you 
bring with you! Did I not hear the trumpets sound ?” 

“Sire, the trumpets sound in Paris only for the king, and in 
campaigns for the general. Here the trumpets would make 
too much noise for a subject ; there they do not make enough 
for a prince.” 

Henri bit his lips. ‘‘ Have you arrived from the siege of La 
Charité only to-day ?” 

“Only to-day, sire,” replied the duke, with a heightened 
colour. 

“Ma foi! your visit is a great honour to us.” 

‘““Your majesty jests, no doubt. How can my visit honour 
him from whom all honour comes ?” 

“T mean, M. de Guise,” replied Henri, “that every good 
Catholic is in the habit, on returning from a campaign, to visit 
God first in one of his temples—the king only comes second. 
‘Honour God, serve the king,’ you know, my cousin.” 

The heightened colour of the duke became now still more dis- 
tinct ; and the king, happening to turn towards his brother, saw 
with astonishment, that he was as pale as the duke was red. 
He was struck by this emotion in each, but he said: 

“At all events, duke, nothing equals my joy to see that you 
have escaped all the dangers of war, although you sought them, 
I was told, in the rashest manner ; but danger knows you and 
flies you.” 

The duke bowed. 

“But I must beg you, my cousin, not to be so ambitious of 
mortal perils, for you put to shame sluggards like us, who sleep, 
eat, and invent new prayers.” 

i Yes, sire,” replied the duke, “ we know you to be a pious 
prince, and that no pleasure can make you forget the glory of 





M. DE GUISE AT THE LOUVRE. 57 


God and the interests of the Church. That is why we have 
come with so much confidence to your majesty.” 

“With confidence! Do you not always come to me with 
confidence, my cousin ?” 

“Sire, the confidence of which I speak refers to the propo- 
sition I am about to make to you.” 

“You have a proposition to make tome! Well, speak, as 
you say, with confidence. What have you to propose ?” 

“The execution of one of the most beautiful ideas whick 
has been originated since the Crusades.” 

“ Continue, duke.” 

*¢ Sire, the title of most Christian king is not a vain ene ; 
it makes an ardent zeal for religion incumbent on its pos- 
sessor.” 

“Ts the Church menaced by the Saracens once more ?” 

“Sire, the great concourse of people who followed me,, 
blessing my name, honoured me with this reception only be- 
cause of my zeal to defend the Church. I have already had 
the honour of speaking to your majesty of an alliance betweem 
all true Catholics.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Chicot, “the League; ventre de _ biche, 
Henri, the League. By St. Bartholomew ! how can you forget 
so splendid an idea, my son ?” 

The duke cast a disdainful glance on Chicot, while D’Anjou, 
who stood by, as pale as death, tried, by signs, to make the 
duke stop. 

“‘ Look at your brother, Henri,” whispered Chicot. 

“Sire,” continued the Duc de Guise, “the Catholics have 
indeed called this association the Holy League, and its aim is 
to fortify the throne against the Huguenots, its mortal enemies ; 
but to form an association is not enough, and in a kingdom 
like France, several millions of men cannot assemble without the 
consent of the king.” 

“* Several millions !” cried Henri, almost with terror. 

“Several millions !” repeated Chicot; ‘‘a small number of 
malcontents, which may bring forth pretty results.” 

“Sire,” cried the duke, “‘I am astonished that your majesty 
allows me to be interrupted so often, when I am speaking on 
serious matters.” 

“Quite right,” said Chicot; ‘silence there.” 

“Several millions!” repeated the king; ‘‘and against these 
millions, how many Huguenots are there in my kingdom ?” 

12 


178 CHIC Of, THE JESTER. 


“ Four,” said Chicot. Misi “ 

This new sally made the king and his friends laguh, but the 
duke frowned, and his gentlemen murmured loudly. 

Henri, becoming once more serious, said, “ Well, duke, what 
do you wish? Tothe point” 

“T wish, sire—for your popularity is dearer to me than my 
own —that your majesty should be superior to us in your 
zeal for religion —I wish you to choose a chief for the 
League.” k 

‘Well !” said the king, to those who surrounded him, “ what 
do you think of it, my friends?” 

Chicot, without saying a word, drew out a iion’s skin from a 
corner, and threw himself on it. 

“What are you doing, Chicot ?” asked the king. 

“Sire, they say that night brings good counsel ; that must be 
because of sleep ; therefore I am going to sleep, and to-morrow 
I will reply to my cousin Guise.” 

The duke cast a furious glance on Chicot, who replied by a 
loud snore. 

“‘ Well, sire !” said the duke, “ what does your majesty say P” 

“‘T think that, as usual, you are in the right, my cousin; con- 
voke, then, your principal leaguers, come at their head, and I 
will choose the chief.” 

“When, sire 2” 

“To-morrow.” 

The Duc de Guise then took leave, and the Duc d’Anjou was 
about to do the same, when the king said,— 

“Stay, my brother, I wish to speak to you.” f 


CHAPTER: Xie 
CASTOR AND POLLUX. 


Thx king dismissed all his favourites, and remained with his 
brother. The duke, who had managed to preserve a tolerably 
composed countenance throughout, believed himself unsus- 
pected, and remained without fear. 

“My brother,” said Henri, after assuring himself that, with the 
exception of Chicot, no one remained in the room, “do you 
know that I am a very happy prince ?” ) . 


CASTOR \AND POLLUX. 179 


“Sire, if your majesty be really happy, it is a recompense from 
Heaven for your merits.” + 

““Ves, happy,” continued the king, “for if great ideas do not 
come to me, they do to my subjects. It is a great idea which 
has occurred to my cousin Guise.” 

The duke made a sign of assent, and Chicot opened his eyes 
to watch the king’s face. 

“‘ Indeed,” continued Henri, “to unite under one banner all 
the Catholics, to arm all France on this pretext from Calais to 
Languedoc, from Bretagne to Burgundy, so that I shall always 
have an army ready to march against England, Holland, or 
Spain, without alarming any of them—do you know, Francois, it 
is a magnificent idea.” 

“Ts it not, sire?” said the duke, delighted. 

“ Yes, I confess I feel tempted to reward largely the author 
of this fine project.” 

Chicot opened his eyes, but he shut them again, for he had 
seen on the face of the king one of his almost imperceptible 
smiles, and he was satisfied. 

“Ves,” continued Henri, “I repeat, such a project merits re- 
compense, and I will do what I can for the author of this good 
work, for the work is begun—is it not, my brother?” 

The duke confessed that it was. 

“‘ Better and better ; my subjects not only conceive these good 
ideas, but, in their anxiety to be of use to me, hasten to put 
them in execution. But I ask you, my dear Francois, if it be 
really to the Duc de Guise that I am indebted for this royal 
thought ?” 

‘No, sire, it occurred to the Cardinal de Lorraine twenty 
years ago, only the St. Bartholomew rendered it needless for 
the time.” 

“Ah! what a pity he is dead; but,” continued Henri, with 
that air of frankness which made him the first comedian of the 
day, “his nephew has inherited it, and brought it to bear. What 
can I do for him ?” 

“Sire,” said. Francois, completely duped by his brother, 
“you exaggerate his merits. He has, as I say, but inherited 
the idea, and another man has given him great help in deve- 
loping it.” 

“‘ His brother the cardinal ?” 

“‘ Doubtless he has been occupied with it, but I do not mean 
him.” 

12—2 


180 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“‘ Mayenne, then ?” 

“Oh! sire, you do him too much honour.” 

“True, how could any good ideas come to such a butcher ? 
But to whom, then, am I to be grateful for his aid to my cousin 
Guise ?” 

<EO me, SITE 

“To you!” cried Henri, as if in astonishment. “ How! 
when I saw all the world unchained against me, the preachers 
against my vices, the poets against my weaknesses, while my 
friends laughed at my powerlessness, and my situation was so 
harassing, that it gave me gray hairs every day: such an idea 
came to you, Fran¢ois—to you, whom I confess, for man is 
feeble and kings are blind, I did not always believe to be my 
friend! Ah! Francois, how guilty I have been.” And Henri, 
moved even to tears, held out his hand to his brother. 

Chicot opened his eyes again. 

“Oh !” continued Henri, “the idea is triumphant. Not being 
able to raise troops without raising an outcry, scarcely to walk, 
sleep, or love, without exciting ridicule, this idea gives me at 
once an army, money, friends, and repose. But my cousin 
spake of a chief?” 

“Yes, doubtless.” 

“This chief, you understand, Francois, cannot be one of my 
favourites ; none of them has at once the head and the heart 
necessary for so important a post. Quelus is brave, but is oc- 
cupied only by his amours. Maugiron is also brave, but he 
thinks only of his toilette. Schomberg also, but he is not clever. 
D’Epernon is a valiant man, but he is a hypocrite, whom I could 
not trust, although I am friendly to him. But you know, Fran- 
cols, that one of the heaviest taxes on a king is the necessity of 
dissimulation ; therefore, when I can speak freely from my heart, 
as I do now, I breathe. Well, then, if my cousin Guise origi- 
nated this idea, to the development of which you have assisted, 
the execution of it belongs to him.” 

“What do you say, sire?” said Francois, uneasily. 


“I say, that to direct such a movement we must have a prince 
of high rank.” 


“¢ Sire, take care.” 


“ A good captain and a skilful negotiator.” 
‘The last particularly.” 


“Well, is not M. de Guise all this >” 
“‘ My brother, he is very powerful already.” 


CASTOR AND POLLUX. « 181 


“ Ves, doubtless ; but his power makes my strength.” 

“ He holds already the army and the bourgeois ; the cardinal 
holds the Church, and Mayenne is their instrument ; it is a great 
deal of power to be concentrated in one family.” 

“Tt is true, Francois ; I had thought of that.” 

““Tf the Guises were French princes, their interest would be 
to aggrandise France.” 

“ Ves, but they are Lorraines.” 

“Of a house always rival to yours.” 

“Yes, Francois ; you have touched the sore. I did not think 
you so good a politician. Yes, there does not pass a day but 
one or other of these Guises, either by address or by force, 
carries away from me some particle of my power. Ah! Fran- 
cois, if we had but had this explanation sooner, if I had been 
able to read your heart as I do now, certain of support in you, 
I might have resisted better, but now it is too late.” 

‘Why so?” 

“Because all combats fatigue me; therefore I must make 
him chief of the League.” 

“ You will be wrong, brother.” 

“ But who could I name, Francois ? who would accept this 
perilous post? Yes, perilous ; for do you not see that he in- 
tended me to appoint him chief, and that, should I name any 
one else to the post, he would treat him as an enemy ?” 

“Name some one so powerful that, supported by you, he 
need not fear all the three Lorraine princes together.” 

«¢ Ah, my good brother, I know no such person.” 

“ Look round you, brother.” 

“I know no one but you and Chicot who are really my 
friends.” 

“Well, brother.” 

Henri looked at the duke as if a veil had fallen from his eyes, 
< Surely you would never consent, brother! It is not you who 
could teach all these bourgeois their exercise, who could look 
over the discourses of the preachers, who, in case of battle, 
would play the butcher in the streets of Paris ; for all this, one 
must be triple, like the duke, and have a right arm called Charles 
and a left called Louis. What! you would like all this ? You, 
the first gentleman of our court! Mort de ma vie ! how people 
change with the age !” 

“Perhaps I would not do it for myself, brother, but I would 
do it for you.” 


182 CHI COT, TILED JE Sake 


“ Excellent brother!” said Henri, wiping away a tear which 
never existed. 

“Then,” said the duke, ‘it would not displease you for me 
to assume this post ?” 

“‘Displease me! On the contrary, it would charm me.” 

Frangois trembled with joy. “Oh! if your majesty thinks 
me worthy of this confidence.” 

“Confidence! When you are the chief, what have I to fear ? 
The League itself? ‘That cannot be dangerous, can it, Fran- 
coils ?” 

“ Oh,, sire!” 

“No, for then you would not be chief, or at least, when you 
are chief, there will be no danger. But, Francois, the duke is 
doubtless certain of this appointment, and he will not lightly 
give way.” 

“Sire, you grant me the command 2?” 

“Certainly.” 

“And you wish me to have it ?” 

“Particularly; but I dare not too much displease M. de 
Guise.” 

“ Oh, make yourself easy, sire ; if that be the only obstacle, I 
pledge myself to arrange it.” 

> When? 

“* At once.” 

“Are you going to him? That will be doing him too much 
honour.” 

‘No, sire; he is waiting for me.” 

““ Where ?” { 

“In my room.” 

“Your room! I heard the cries of the people as he left the 
Louvre.” 

“Yes ; but after going out at the great door he came back by 
the postern. The king had the right to the first visit, but I to 
the second.” 

“i Ah, brother, I thank you for keeping up our prerogative, 
which I have the weakness so often to abandon. Go, then, 
Francois, and do your best.” 

_ Francois bent down to kiss the king’s hand, but he, opening 
his arms, gave him a warm embrace, and then the duke left the 
room to go to his interview with the Duc de Guise. The king, 
seeing his brother gone, gave an angry growl, and rapidly made 
his way through the secret corridor, until he reached a hiding- 


itddie 


LISTENING IS THE BEST WAY TO HEAR. 183 


place whence he could distinctly hear the conversation between 
the two dukes. 

“Ventre de biche !” cried Chicot, starting up, “ how touching 
these family scenes are! For an instant I believed myself in 
Olympus, assisting at the reunion of Castor and Pollux after six 
months’ separation.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


IN WHICH IT IS PROVED THAT LISTENING IS THE BEST WAY 
TO HEAR. 


THE Duc d’Anjou was well aware that there were few rooms in 
the Louvre which were not built so that what was said in them 
could be heard from the outside ; but, completely seduced by 
his brother’s manner, he forgot to take any precautions. 

“Why, monseigneur,” said the Duc de Guise, ‘‘ how pale you 
are !” 

“ Visibly ?” 

‘Ves. tome.” 

“The king saw nothing >” 

“T think not ; but he retained you ?” 

eS. 

‘“‘ And what did he say, monseigneur ?” 

‘“‘ He approves the idea, but the more gigantic it appears, the 
more he hesitates to place a man like you at the head.” 

“Then we are likely to fail.” 

“J fear so, my dear duke; the League seems likely to fail.” 

“ Before it begins.” 

At this moment Henri, hearing a noise, turned and saw Chicot 
by his side, listening also. ‘“‘ You followed me, knave !” said he. 

“‘ Hush, my son,” said Chicot ; ‘‘you prevent me from hearing.” 

“* Monseigneur,” said the Duc de Guise, ‘‘it seems to me that 
in this case the king would have refused at once. Does he wish 
to dispossess me ?” 

“T believe so.” 

“Then he would ruin the enterprise ?” 

“Yes; but I aided you with all my power.” 

“ How, monseigneur ?” 


aS4 CHICOT, THE JESTER, 


“Tn this—the king has left me almost master, to kill or re- 
animate the League.” 
“ How so 2?” cried the duke, with sparkling eyes. 
“Why, if, instead of dissolving the League, he named me 
chief. i 
“ Ah!” cried the duke, while the blood mounted to his face. 
“Ah! the dogs are going to fight over their bones,” said 
Chicot; but to his surprise, and the king’s, the Duc de Guise 
suddenly became calm, and exciaimed, in an almost joyful tone: 
“Vou are an adroit politician, monseigneur, if you did this.” 





“Yes, I did; but I would not conclude anything without 


speaking to you.” 

“ Why so, monseigneur ?” 

“Because I did not know what it would lead us to.” 

“Well, I will tell you, monseigneur, not to what it will lead 
ais—that God alone knows—but how it will serve us.. The 


League is a second army, and as I hold the first, and my ~ 


brother the Church, nothing can resist us as long as we are 
ainited.” 

“Without counting,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “ that I am heir 
presumptive to the throne.” 

“True, but still calculate your bad chances.” 

“T have done so a hundred times.” 

“There is, first, the King of Navarre.” 

“Oh! I do not mind him; he is entirely occupied by his 
aamours with La Fosseuse.” 

‘He, monseigneur, will dispute every inch with you; he 
watches you and your brother; he hungers for the throne. If 
any accident should happen to your brother, see if he will not 
be here with a bound from Pau to Paris.” 

“An accident to my brother,” repeated Francois. 

“Listen, Henri,” said Chicot. 

“Yes, monseigneur,” said the Duc de Guise, ‘an accident. 
Accidents are not rare in your family ; you know that, as well 
as Ido. One prince is in good health, and all at once he falls 
ill of a lingering malady ; another is counting on long years, 
when, perhaps, he has but a few hours to live.” 

_“Do you hear, Henri?” said Chicot, taking the hand of the 
king, who shuddered at what he heard. 

“Yes, it is true,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “the princes of my 
house are born under fatal influences ; but my brother Henri 
as, thank God, strong and well; he supported formerly the 


ee 


LISTENING IS THE BEST WAY TO HEAR. 185 


fatigues of war, and now that his life is nothing but recrea- 
tion——-” 

“Yes; but, monseigneur, remember one thing; these re- 
creations are not always without danger. How did your father, 
Henri II., die, for example? He, who also had happily es- 
caped the dangers of war. ‘The wound by M. de Montgomery’s 
lance was an accident. Then your poor brother, Francois, one 
would hardly call a pain in the ears an accident, and yet it was 
one; at least, I have often heard it said that this mortal malady 
was poured into his ear by some one well known.” 

“Duc !” murmured Francois, reddening. 

*“Ves, monseigneur; the name of king has long brought 
misfortune with it. Look at Antoine de Bourbon, who died 
from a spot in the shoulder. Then there was Jeanne d’Albret, 
the mother of the Béarnais, who died from smelling a pair of 
perfumed gloves, an accident very unexpected, although there 
were people who had great interest in this death. Then Charles 
IX., who died neither by the eye, the ear, nor the shoulder, but 
by the mouth——’” 

‘““What do you say ?” cried Francois, starting back. 

“Yes, monseigneur, by the mouth. ‘Those hunting books 
are very dangerous, of which the pages stick together, and can 
only be opened by wetting the finger constantly.” 

“Duke! duke! I believe you invent crimes.” 

“Crimes! who speaks of crimes? I speak of accidents. 
Was it not also an accident that happened to Charles IX. at the 
chase 2? You know what chase I mean ; that of the boar, where, 
intending to kill the wild boar, which had turned on your 
brother, you, who never before had missed your aim, did so 
then, and the king would have been killed, as he had fallen 
from his horse, had not Henri of Navarre slain the animal 
which you had missed.” 

“But,” said the Duc d’Anjou, trying to recover himself, 
“ what interest could I have had in the death of Charles IX., 
when the next king would be Henri III. ?” 

“«Oh! monseigneur, there was already one throne vacant, 
that of Poland. The death of Charles IX. would have left 
another, that of France; and even the kingdom of Poland 
might not have been despised. Besides, the death of Charles 
would have brought you a degree nearer the throne, and the 
next accident would have benefited you.” 


186 CHICOT, THE JESTER: 


“What do you conclude from all this, duke?” said the Duc 
d’Anjou. 

“ Monseigneur, I conclude that each king has his accident, 
and that you are the inevitable accident of Henri IIL. .» parti- 
cularly if you are chief of the League.” 

“Then I am to accept ?” 

“Oh! I beg you to do so.” 

“¢ And you ?” 

fs Oh! ! _be easy ; my men are ready, and to-night Paris will be 
curious.’ 

“What are they going to do in Paris to-night ?” asked Henri. 

“Oh! how foolish you are, my friend ; to-night they sign the 
League publicly.” 

“Tt is well,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “till this evening then.” 

Ves still this evening,” said Henri. 

“How !” said Chicot, “ you will not risk going into the streets 
to-night 2” 

“Yes, I shall.” 

“You are wrong, Henri; remember the accidents.” 

“Oh! I shall be well accompanied ; will you come with me ?” 

“What ! do you take me for a Huguenot ? I shall go and sign 
the league ten times. However, Henri, you have a great ad- 
vantage over your predecessors, in being warned, for you know 
your brother, do you not ?” 

“Yes, and, mordieu ! before long he shall find it out.” 


CHAPTER XI. 
THE EVENING OF THE LEAGUE. 


Paris presented a fine sight, as through its then narrow streets 
thousands of people pressed towards the same point, for at 
eight o’clock in the evening, M. le Duc de Guise was to receive 
the signatures of the bourgeois to the League. A crowd of 
citizens, dressed in their best clothes, as for a féte, but fully 
armed, directed their steps towards the churches. What added 
to the noise and confusion was that large numbers of women, 
disdaining ‘to stay at home on such a great day, had followed 
their husbands, and many had brought with them a whole batch 
of children. It was in the Rue de I’Arbre Sec that the crowd 


THE EVENING OF THE LEAGUE. 187 


was the thickest. The streets were literally choked, and the 
crowd pressed tumultuously towards a bright light suspended 
below the sign of the Belle Etoile. On the threshold a man, 
with a cotton cap on his head and a naked sword in one hand 
and a register in the other, was crying out, “ Come come, brave 
Catholics, enter the hotel of the Belle Etoile, where you will 
find good wine ; come, to-night the good will be separated from 
the bad, and to-morrow morning the wheat will be known from 
the tares ; come, gentlemen, you who can write, come and sign ; 
—you who cannot write, come and tell your names to me, 
La Huritre ; vive la messe !” A tall man elbowed his way through 
the crowd, and in letters half an inch high, wrote his name, 
‘Chicot.’? Then, turning to La Huriere, he asked if he had not 
another register to sign. La Huriére did not understand raillery, 
and answered angrily. Chicot retorted, and a quarrel seemed 
approaching, when Chicot, feeling some one touch his arm, 
turned, and saw the king disguised as a simple bourgeois, and 
accompanied by Quelus and Maugiron, also disguised, and 
carrying an arquebuse on their shoulders. 

“ What !” cried the king, “ good Catholics disputing among 
themselves ; par la mordieu, it is a bad example.” 

“Do not mix yourself with what does not concern you,” re- 
plied Chicot, without seeming to recognise him. But a new 
influx of the crowd distracted the attention of La Huriere, and 
separated the king and his companions from the hotel. 

““Why are you here, sire ?” said Chicot. 

“Do you think I have anything to fear >?” 

“Eh! mon Dieu! in a crowd like this it is so easy for one 
man to put a knife into his neighbour, and who just utters an 
oath and gives up the ghost.” 

‘Have I been seen ?” 

“TJ think not; but you will be if you stay longer. Go back 
to the Louvre, sire.” 

“Oh! oh! what is this new outcry, and what are the people 
running for ?” 

Chicot looked, but could at first see nothing but a mass of 
people crying, howling, and pushing. At last the mass opened, 
and a monk, mounted on a donkey, appeared. The monk 
spoke and gesticulated, and the ass brayed. 

“Ventre de biche !” cried Chicot, “listen to the preacher.” 

“* A preacher on a donkey !” cried Quelus. 

“Why not 2” 


188 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“ He is Silenus,” said Maugiron. 

“Which is the preacher?” said the king, “for they speak 
both at once.” 

“The underneath one is the most eloquent,” said Chicot, 
“but the one at the top speaks the best French ; listen, Henri.” 

“ My brethren,” said the monk, “ Paris is a superb city; 
Paris is the pride of France, and the Parisians a fine people.” 
Then he began to sing, but the ass mingled his accompaniment 
so loudly that he was obliged to stop. The crowd burst out 
laughing. Y 

“Hold your tongue, Panurge, hold your tongue,” cried the 
monk, “you shall speak after, but let me speak first.” 

The ass was quiet. 

“ My brothers,” continued the preacher, “the eaxh is a valley 
of grief, where man often can quench his thirst only with his 
tears.” 

“He is drunk,” said the king. 

“‘T should think so.” 

“J, who speak to you,” continued the monk, “I am returning 
from exile like the Hebrews of old, and for eight days Panurge 
and I have been living on alms and privations.” 

“Who is Panurge ?” asked the king. 

“The superior of his convent, probabiy; but let me listen.” 

“Who made me endure this? It was Herod; you know 
what Herod I speak of. I and Panurge have come from Ville- 
neuve-le-Roi, in three days, to assist at this great solemnity ; 
now we see, but we do not understand. What is passing, my 
brothers? Is it to day that they depose Herod? Is it to-day 
that they put brother Henri in a convent >—Gentlemen,” con- 
tinued he, “I left Paris with two friends; Panurge, who is my 
ass, and Chicot, who is his majesty’s jester. Can you tell me 
what has become of my friend Chicot 2” 

Chicot made a grimace. 

_ “Oh,” said the king, “he is your friend.” Quelus and Mau- 
giron burst out laughing. “ He is handsome and respectable,” 
continued the king. 

“Tt is Gorenflot, of whom M. de Morvilliers spoke to you.” 

“The incendiary of St. Genevieve 2” 

“ Himself !” 

“Then I will have him hanged !” 

° f=) 

“Impossible !” 

“ce Why P” 


THE EVENING OF THE LEAGUE. 189 


““ He has no neck.” 

“ My brothers,” continued Gorenflot, ‘I am a true martyr, 
and it is my cause that they defend at this moment, or, rather, 
that of all good Catholics. You donot know what is passing in 
the provinces; we have been obliged at Lyons to killa Huguenot 
who preached revolt. While one of them remains in France, 
there will be no tranquillity for us. Let us exterminate them. 
To arms! to arms !” 

Several voices repeated, ‘To arms !” 

*“‘ Par la mordieu !” said the king, ‘“ make this fellow hold his 
tongue, or he will make a second St. Bartholomew !” 

“Wait,” said Chicot, and with his stick he struck Gorenflot 
with all his force on the shoulders. 

“ Murder !” cried the monk. 

“Tt is you !” cried Chicot. 

“Help me, M. Chicot, help me! The enemies of the faith 
wish to assassinate me, but I will not die without making my 
voice heard. Death to the Huguenots !” 

“Will you hold your tongue?” cried Chicot. But at this 
moment a second blow fell on the shoulders of the monk with 
such force that he cried out with real pain. Chicot, astonished, 
looked round him, but saw nothing but the stick. ‘The blow 
had been given by a man who had immediately disappeared in 
the crowd after administering this punishment. 

“Who the devil could it have been ?” thought Chicot, and 
he began to run after the man, who was gliding away, followed 
by only one companion. 


CHAPTER XLI. 
THE RUE DE LA FERRONNERIE. 


Cuicor had good legs, and he would have made the best use of 
them to join the man who had beaten Gorenflot if he had not 
imagined that there might be danger in trying to recognise a 
man who so evidently wished to avoid it. He thought the best 
way not to seem to watch them was to pass them; so he ranon, 
and passed them at the corner of the Rue Tirechappe, and then 
hid himself at the end of the Rue des Bourdonnais. ‘The two 
men went on, their hats slouched over their eyes, and their 


190 CHICOT, THE JES TAI. 


cloaks drawn up over their faces, with a quick and military step, 
until they reached the Rue de la Ferronnerie. There they 
stopped and looked round them. Chicot, who was still ahead, 
saw in the middle of the street, before a house so old that it 
looked falling to pieces, a litter, attached to which were two 
horses. The driver had fallen asleep, while a woman, apparently 
unquiet, was looking anxiously through the blind. Chicot hid 
himself behind a large stone wall, which served as stalls for the 
vegetable sellers on the days when the market was held in this 
street, and watched. Scarcely was he hidden, when he saw the 
two men approach the litter, one of whom, on seeing the driver 
asleep, uttered an impatient exclamation, while the other pushed 
him to awaken him. ‘Oh, they are compatriots !’ thought 
Chicot. The lady now leaned out of the window, and Chicot 
saw that she was young, very pale, but very beautiful. The 
two men approached the litter, and the taller of the two took 
in both of his the little white hand which was stretched out to 
him. 

“‘ Well, ma mie,” asked he, ‘‘ how are you ?” 

“T have been very anxious,” replied she. 

“Why the devil did you bring madame to Paris?” said the 
other man rudely. 

“Ma foi! it is a malediction that you must always have a 
petticoat tacked to your doublet !” 

“ Ah, dear Agrippa,” replied the man who had spoken first, 
“it is so great a grief to part from one you love.” 

“On my soul, you make me swear to hear you talk! Did 
you come to Paris to make love? It seems to me that Béarn 
is large enough for your sentimental promenades, without con- 
tinuing them in this Babylon, where you have nearly got us 
killed twenty times to-day. Go home, if you wish to make love, 
but, here, keep to your political intrigues, my master.” 

“Tet him scold, ma mie, and never mind him; I think he 
would be ill if he did not.” wey 

““But, at least, ventre St. Gris, as you say, get into the litter, 
and say your sweet things to madame ; you will run less risk of 
being recognised there than in the open street.” 

“You are right, Agrippa. Give me a place, ma mie, if you 
permit me to sit by your side.” ; 

“Permit, sire; I desire it ardently,” replied the lady. 

“Sire !” murmured Chicot, who, carried away by an impulse, 
tried to raise his head, and knocked it against the stone wall. 


THE RUE DE LA FERRONNER/E. I9l 


Meanwhile the happy lover profited by the permission given, 
and seated himself in the litter. 

““Oh! how happy I am,” he cried, without attending in the 
least to the impatience of his friend—‘“‘ventre St. Gris, this is 
a good day. Here are my good Parisians, who execrate me with 
all their souls, and would kill me if they could, working to 
smooth my way to the throne, and I have in my arms the woman 
I love. Where are we, D’Aubigné? when I am king, I will 
erect here a statue to the genius of the Béarnais.” 

“The Béarn ” began Chicot, but he stopped, for he had 
given his head a second bump. 

“We are in the Rue de la Ferronnerie, sire,” said D’Aubigné, 
“‘and it does not smell nice.” 

“‘ Get in then, Agrippa, and we will go on.” 

“‘Ma foi, no, I will follow behind ; I should annoy you, and, 
what is worse, you would annoy me.” 

“Shut the door then, bear of Béarn, and do as you like.” 
Then to the coachman he said, “ Lavarrenne, you know where.” 

The litter went slowly away, followed by D’Aubigné. 

“Tet me see,” said Chicot, “ must I tell Henri what I have 
seen? Why should J? two men and a woman, who hide 
themselves; it would be cowardly. I will not tell; that I 
know it myself is the important point, for is it not I who reign? 
His love was very pretty, but he loves too often, this dear 
Henri of Navarre. A year ago it was Madame de Sauve, and 
I suppose this was La Fosseuse. However, I love the Béarnais, 
for I believe some day he will do an ill turn to those dear 
Guises. Well! I have seen everyone to-day but the Duc d’Anjou; 
he alone is wanting to my list of princes. Where can my 
Francois III. be? Ventre de biche, I must look for the worthy 
monarch.” 

Chicot was not the only person who was seeking for the Duc 
d’Anjou, and unquiet at his absence. ‘The Guises had also 
sought for him on all sides, but they were not more lucky than 
Chicot. M. d’Anjou was not the man to risk himself impru- 
dently, and we shall see afterwards what precautions had kept 
him from his friends. Once Chicot thought he had found him 
in the Rue Bethisy ; a numerous group was standing at the door 
of a wine-merchant ; and in this group Chicot recognised M. de 
Monsoreau and M. de Guise, and fancied that the Duc d’Anjou 
could not be far off.’ But he was wrong. MM. de Monsoreau 
and Guise were occupied in exciting still more an orator in his 





192 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


stammering eloquence. ‘This orator was Gorenflot, recounting 
his journey to Lyons, and his duel in an inn with a dreadful 
Huguenot. M. de Guise was listening intently, for he began to 
fancy it had something to do with the silence of Nicolas David. 
Chicot was terrified ; he felt sure that in another moment Goren- 
flot would pronounce his name, which would throw a fatal light 
on the mystery. Chicot in an instant cut the bridles of some 
of the horses that were fastened up, and giving them each a 
violent blow, sent them galloping among the crowd, which 
opened, and began to disperse in different directions. Chicot 
passed quickly through the groups, and approaching Gorenflot, 
took Panurge by the bridle and turned him round The Duc 
de Guise was already separated from them by the rush of the 
people, and Chicot led off Gorenflot to a kind of cul-de-sac bythe 
church of St. Germain I’Auxerrois. 

“ Ah! drunkard !” said he to him, “ah! traitor! you will then 
always prefer a bottle of wine to your friend.” 

“Ah! M. Chicot,” stammered the monk. 

“What! I feed you, wretch, I give you drink, I fill your 
pockets and your stomach, and you betray me.” 

“Ah! M. Chicot !” 

“You tell my secrets, wretch.” 

“¢ Dear friend.” 

“Hold your tongue ; you are but a sycophant, and deserve 
punishment.” 

And the monk, vigorous and strong, powerful as a bull, but 
overcome by wine and repentance, remained without defending 
himself in the hands of Chicot, who shook him like a balloon 
full of air. 

“ A punishment to me, to your friend, dear M. Chicot !” 


“Yes, to you,” said Chicot, striking him over the shoulders 
with his stick. 


“Ah! if I were but fasting.” 

“You would beat me, I suppose; I, your friend.” 

“My friend! and you treat me thus !” 

“He who loves well chastises well,” said Chicot, redoubling 
his proofs of friendship. ‘‘ Now,” said he, “ go and sleep at 
the Corne d’Abondance.” 


“T can no longer see my way,” cried the monk, from whose 
eyes tears were falling. 


“Ah!” said Chicot, “if you wept for the wine you have 
drunk! However, I will guide you.” 


THE RUE DE LA FERRONNERIE. 193 


And taking the ass by the bridle, he led him to the hotel, 
where two men assisted Gorenflot to dismount, and led him up 
to the room which our readers already know. 

“Tt is done,” said the host, returning. 

“ He is in bed >” 

“‘ Yes, and snoring.” 

“Very well. But as he will awake some day or other, re- 
member that I do not wish that he should know how he came 
here ; indeed, it will be better that he should not know that he 
has been out since the famous night when he made such a noise 
in the convent, and that he should believe that all that has 
passed since is a dream.” 

‘Very well, M. Chicot ; but what has happened to the poor 
monk ?” 

“ A great misfortune. It appears that at Lyons he quarrelled 
with an agent of M. de Mayenne’s and killed him.” 

“Oh! mon Dieu !” 

“So that M. de Mayenne has sworn that he will have him 
broken on the wheel.” 

“« Make yourself easy, monsieur ; he shall not go out from here 
on any pretext.” 

“Good. And now,” said Chicot, as he went away, “I must 
find the Duc d’Anjou.” 


CHAPTER XLII 
THE PRINCE AND THE FRIEND. 


WE may remember that the Duc de Guise had invited the Duc 
d’Anjou to meet him in the streets of Paris that evening. How- 
ever, he determined not to go out of his palace unless he was 
well accompanied ; therefore the duke went to seek his sword, 
which was Bussy d’Amboise. For the duke to make up his 
mind to this step he must have been very much afraid ; for since 
his deception with regard to M. de Monsoreau he had not seen 
Bussy, and stood in great dread of him. Bussy, like all fine 
natures, felt sorrow more vividly than pleasure ; for it is rare 
that a man intrepid in danger, cold and calm in the face of fire 
and sword, does not give way to grief more easily than a coward. 
Those from whom a woman can draw tears most easily are those 
13 


194 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


most to be feared by other men. Bussy had seen Diana 
received at court as Comtesse de Monsoreau, and as such 
admitted by the queen into the circle of her maids of honour ; 
he had seen a thousand curious eyes fixed on her unrivalled 
beauty. During the whole evening he had fastened his ardent 
gaze on her, who never raised her eyes to him, and he, unjust, 
like every man in love, never thought how she must have been 
suffering from not daring to meet his sympathising glance. 

‘“‘Oh,” said he to himself, seeing that he waited uselessly for 
a look, “women have skill and audacity only when they want 
to deceive a guardian, a husband, or a mother ; they are awk- 
ward and cowardly when they have simply a debt of gratitude 
to pay, they fear so much to seem to love—they attach so 
exaggerated a value to their least favour, that they do not mind 
breaking their lover’s heart, if such be their humour. Diana 
might have said to me frankly, ‘I thank you for what you have 
done for me, but I do not iove you.’ The blow would have 
killed or cured me. But no; she prefers letting me love her 
hopelessly ; but she has gained nothing by it, for I no longer 
love her, I despise her.” 

And he went away with rage in his heart. 

““T am mad,” thought he, ‘“ to torment myself about a person 
who disdains me. But why does she disdain me, or for whom ? 
Not, surely, for that long, livid-looking skeleton, who, always by 
her side, covers her incessantly with his jealous glances. If I 
wished it, in a quarter of an hour I could hold him mute and 
cold under my knee with ten inches of steel in his Heart, and if 
I cannot be loved, I could at least be terrible and hated. Oh, 
her hatred! Rather than her indifference. Yes, but to act 
thus would be to do what a Quelus or a Maugiron would do if 
they knew how to love. Better to resemble that hero of Plu- 
tarch whom I so much admired, the young Antiochus, dying of 
love and never avowing it, nor uttering a complaint. Am I not 
called the brave Bussy >” 

He went home, and threw himself on a chair. How long he 
remained there he did not know, when a man approached him. 

‘““M. le Comte,” said he, “ you are in a fever, 

“Ah, is it you, Rémy ?” 

“Yes, count. Go to bed.” 

_Bussy obeyed, and all the next day Rémy watched by him, 
with refreshing drinks for his body and kind words for his mind. 
But on the day after Bussy missed him. 


THE PRINCE AND THE FRIEND. 195 


“ Poor lad !” thought he, “ he was tired and wanted air ; and 
then doubtless Gertrude expected him ; she is but a femme de 
chambre, but she loves, and a femme de chambre who loves is 
better than a queen who does not.” 

The day passed, and Rémy did not return. Bussy was angry 
and impatient. ‘Oh!’ cried he, “I, who still believed in gra- 
titude and friendship, will henceforth believe in nothing.” 
Towards evening he heard voices in his ante-chamber, and a 
servant entered, saying, “It is Monseigneur the Duc d’Anjou.” 

“‘ Let him enter,” said Bussy, frowning. 

The duke, on entering the room, which was without lights, 
said, ‘“‘It is too dark here, Bussy.” 

Bussy did not answer ; disgust closed his mouth. 

“ Are you really ill,” said the duke, “ that you do not answer ?” 

“T am very ill,” : 

“Then that is why I have not seen you for two days ?” 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

‘The prince, piqued at these short answers, began to examine 
the room. 

“You seem to me well lodged, Bussy,” said he. 

Bussy did not reply. 

“‘ Bussy must be very ill,” said the duke to an attendant who 
stood by, “why was not Miron called? The king’s doctor is 
not too good for Bussy.” When the servant was gone, “Are 
you in grief, Bussy ?” said the duke. 

' “T do not know.” 

The duke approached, becoming more and more gracious 
as he was rebuffed. ‘Come, speak frankly, Bussy,” said he. 

“‘ What am I to say, monseigneur ?” 

“You are angry with me ?” 

“TJ! for what ? besides, it is no use to be angry with princes.” 

The duke was silent. 

“ But,” said Bussy, “we are losing time in preambles ; to the 
point, monseigneur. You have need of me, I suppose ?” 

“ Ah, M. de Bussy !” 

“Ves, doubtless ; do you think I believe that you come here 
through friendship ; you, who love no one ?” 

“Oh, Bussy, to say such things to me!” 

“Well, be quick, monseigneur, what do you want? When 
one serves a prince, and he dissimulates to the extent of call- 
ing you his friend, one must pay for the dissimulation by being 
ready to sacrifice everything, even life, if necessary.” 

13—2 


196 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


The duke coloured, but it was too dark to see it. ‘‘I wanted 
nothing of you, Bussy, and you deceive yourself in thinking my 
visit interested. I desire only, seeing the fine evening, and 
that all Paris is out to sign the League, that you should accom: 
pany me a little about the streets.” 

Bussy looked at him. ‘“ Have you not Aurilly to go with 

ou?” 

“ A lute-player !” 

“ Ah, monseigneur, you do not mention all his qualities; I 
believed that he fulfilled other functions for you. Besides, you 
have a dozen other gentlemen; I hear them in the ante- 
chamber.” 

At this moment the dooropened. ‘Who is there ?” said the 
duke, haughtily. “ Who enters unannounced where I am ?” 

“T, Rémy,” replied the young man, without any embarrass- 
ment. 

“Who is Rémy ?” 

“ The doctor, monseigneur,” said the young man. 

“ And my friend,” said Bussy. ‘‘ You heard what monseig- 
neur asks?” continued he, turning to Rémy. 

“Yes, that you should accompany him ; but——” 

“But what ?” said the duke. 

“But you cannot do it.” 

“ And why soe” cried the duke. 

“ Because it is too cold out of doors.” 

“Too cold !” cried the duke, surprised that any one should 
oppose him. ‘ 

“Yes, too cold. Therefore I, who answer for M. Bussy’s life 
to himself and to his friends, must forbid him to go out.” And 
he pressed Bussy’s hand in a significant manner. 

“ Very well,” said the duke, ‘if the risk be so great, he must 
stay.” And he turned angrily to the door; but returning to 
the bed, he said, ‘Then you have decided not to come ?’ 

‘“‘Monseigneur, you hear that the doctor forbids me.” 

“You ought to see Miron, he is a great doctor.” 

“T prefer my friend.” 

‘alhen adie.” 

“ Adieu, monseigneur.” 

No sooner was the duke gone than Rémy said, “ Now, 
monsieur, get up at once, if you please.” 

‘What for ?” 

“To come out with me. This room is too warm.” 


THE PRINCE AND THE FRIEND. 197 


* Vou said just now to the duke that it was too cold outside.” 

“‘ The temperature has changed since.” 

“So that——” said Bussy, with curiosity. 

“So that now I am convinced that the air will do you good.” 

“JT do not understand.” 

“Do you understand the medicines I give you? Yet you 
take them. Come, get up; a walk with M. d’Anjou is dangerous, 
with me it is healthy. Have you lost confidence in me? If so, 
send me away.” 

“Well, as you wish it.” And he rose, pale and trembling. 

“ An interesting paleness,” said Rémy. 

“ But where are we going?” 

“To a place where I have analysed the air to-day.” 

* And this air ?” 

“Ts sovereign for your complaint, monseigneur.” 

Bussy dressed, and they went out. 


CHAPTER XLII 
ETYMOLOGY OF THE RUE DE LA JUSSIENNE. 


Rimy took his patient by the arm, and led him by the Rue 
Coquillitre down to the rampart. 

“Tt is strange,” said Bussy, “you take me near the marsh of 
the Grange-Batelier, and call it healthy.” 

“Oh, monsieur, a little patience ; we are going to turn round 
the Rue Pagavin, and get into the Rue Montmartre—you will 
see what a fine street that is.” 

« As if I did not know it.” 

“Well, so much the better ; I need not lose time in showing 
you its beauties, and I wi!l lead you at once into a pretty little 
street.” 

Indeed, after going a few steps down the Rue Montmartre, 
they turned to the right. 

“ This,” said Rémy, “is the Rue de la Gypecienne, or Egyp- 
tienne, which you like ; often called by the people the Rue de 
la Gyssienne, or Jussienne.” 

“Very likely ; but where are we going ?” 

“To you see that little church ?” said Rémy. “ How nicely 
it is situated ; I dare say you never remarked it before.” 


198 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“No, I did not know it.” 

“Well, now that you have seen the exterior, enter and look 
at the windows—they are very curious.” 

There was such a pleased smile on the young man’s face, that 
Bussy felt sure there must have been some other reason for 
making him enter than to look at windows which it was too 
dark to see. The chapel was lighted, however, for service, and 
Rémy began examining a fresco of the Virgin Mary, which was 
a continual source of complaint to the women who frequented 
the church, as they said that it attracted the attention of the 
young shopkeepers away from them. 

“You had some other object in bringing me here chan that I 
should admire the St. Marie, had you not? 2?” 

“Ma foi! no.” 

“Then let us go.” 

“Wait a moment ; the service is finishing.” 

“Now let us go,” said Bussy; “they are moving ;” and he 
walked to the door. 

“At least take some holy water.” 

Bussy ghee and Rémy making a sign to a woman who 
stood near, she advanced, and Bussy grew ‘suddenly pale, for he 
recognised Gertrude. She saluted him and passed on, but be- 
hind her came a figure which, although closely veiled, made his 
heart beat fast. Rémy looked at him, and Bussy knew now 
why he had brought him to this church. Bussy followed the 
lady, and Rémy followed him. Gertrude had walked on before, 
until she came to an alley closed by a door. She opened it, 
and let her mistress pass. Bussy followed, and the two others 
disappeared. 

It was half-past seven in the evening, and near the beginning 
of May; the air began to have the feeling of spring, and the 
leaves were beginning to unfold themselves. Bussy looked 
round him, and found himself in a little garden fifty feet square, 
surrounded by high walls covered with vines and moss. The 
first lilacs which had begun to open in the morning sun sent out 
their sweet emanations, and the young man felt tempted to 
think that so much perfume and warmth and life came to him 
only from the presence of the woman he loved so tenderly. 

On a little wooden bench sat Diana, twisting in her fingers a 
sprig of wali flower, which she had picked, without knowing what 
she did. As Bussy approached her, she raised her head, and 
said timidly, “ M. le Comte, all deception would be unworthy 


ETYMOLOGY OF THE RUE DE LA JUSSIENNE. 199 


of us; if you found me at the church of St. Marie l’Egyptienne, 
it was not chance that brought you there.” 

“No, madame; Rémy took me out without my knowing 
_ where I was going, and I swear to you that I was igno- 
rant——” 

* Vou do not understand me, monsieur, I know well that 
M. Rémy brought you there, by force, perhaps.” 

“No, madame, not by force; I did not know that he was 
going to take me to see any one.” 

“That is a harsh speech,” said Diana, sadly, and with tears 
in her.eyes. “Do you mean that had you known, you would 
not have come ?” 

“Oh, madame !” 

“Tt would have been but just, monsieur ; you did me a great 
service, and I have not thanked you. Pardon me, and receive 
all my thanks.” 

“Madame ” Bussy stopped; he felt so overcome, that 
he had neither words nor ideas. 

“ But I wished to prove to you,” continued Diana, “that I 
am not ungrateful, nor forgetful. It was I who begged M. 
Rémy to procure for me the honour of this interview ; it was I 
who sought for it, forgive me if I have displeased you.” 

“Oh, madame! you cannot think that.” 

“T know,” continued Diana, who was the strongest, because 
she had prepared herself for this interview, ‘how much trouble 
you had in fulfilling my commission ; I know all your delicacy; 
I know it and appreciate it, believe me. Judge, then, what I 
must have suffered from the idea that you would misunderstand 
the sentiments of my heart.” 

“Madame, I have been ill for three days.” 

“Qh! I know,” cried Diana, with a rising colour, “anc. I 
suffered more than you, for M. Rémy, he “deceived me, no 
doubt ; for he made me believe Y 

“That your forgetfulness caused it. Oh! it is true.” 

“Then I have been right to do as I have done ; to see you, 
to thank you for your kindness, and to swear to you an eternal 
gratitude. Do you believe that I speak from the bottom of my 
heart ?” 

Bussy shook his head sadly, and did not reply. 

“Do you doubt my words ?” said Diana. 

“Madame, those who feel a kindness for you, show it when 
they can, You knew I was at the palace the night of your pre- 








200 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


sentation, you knew I was close to you, you must have felt my 
looks fixed on you, and you never raised your eyes to me, 
you never let me know by a word, a sign, or a gesture, that 
you were aware of my presence; but perhaps you did not 
recognise me, madame, you have only seen me twice.” Diana 
replied with so sad a glance of reproach, that Bussy was moved 
by it. 
ve Pardon, madame,” said he; “you are not an ordinary 
woman, and yet you act like them. This marriage——” 

““T was forced to conclude it.” 

“ Yes, but it was easy to break.” 

“ Impossible, on the contrary.” 

“Did you not know that near you watched a devoted 
friend ?” 

“ Even that made me fear.” 

“ And you did not think of what my life would be, when you 
belonged to another. But perhaps you kept the name of 
Monsoreau from choice ?” 

‘Do you think so?” murmured Diana ; “ so much the better.” 
And her eyes filled with tears. Bussy walked up and down in 
great agitation. 

“‘T am to become once more a stranger to you,” said he. 

Alas” 

“Your silence says enough.” 

*T can only speak by my silence.” 

“ At the Louvre you would not see me, and now you will not 
speak to me.” : 

“At the Louvre I was watched by M. de Monsoreau, and he 
is jealous.” 

“Jealous! What does he want then? mon Dieu! whose 
happiness can he envy, when all the world is envying his ?” 

“T tell you he is jealous; for the last two or three days he 
has seen some one wandering round our new abode.” 

“Then you have quitted the Rue St. Antoine?” 

“ How!” cried Diana thoughtlessly, ‘‘then it was not you 2” 

“Madame, since your marriage was publicly announced, 
since that evening at the Louvre, where you did not deign to 
Jook at me, I have been in bed, devoured by fever, so you see 
that your husband could not be jealous of me, at least.” 

“Well! M. le Comte, if it be true that you had any desire 
to see me, you must thank this unknown man ; for knowing M. 
de Monsoreau as I know him, this man made me tremble for 


ETYMOLOGY OF THE RUE DE LA JUSSIENNE. 201 


you, and I wished to see you and say to you, ‘ Do not expose 
yourself so, M. le Comte ; do not make me more unhappy than 
I am.’” 

“ Reassure yourself, madame ; it was not I.” 

“ Now, let me finish what I have to say. In the fear of this 
man—whom I do not know, but whom M. de Monsoreau does 
perhaps—he exacts that I should leave Paris, so that,” said 
Diana, holding out her hand to Bussy, “you may look upon 
this as our last meeting, M. le Comte. To-morrow we start for 
Méridor.” 

“You are going, madame ?” 

“There is no other way to reassure M. de Monsoreau ; no 
other way for me to be at peace. Besides, I myself detest Paris, 
the world, the court, and the Louvre. I wish to be alone with 
my souvenirs of my happy past ; perhaps a little of my former 
happiness will return to me there. My father will accompany 
me, and I shall find there M. and Madame de St. Luc, who ex- 
pect me. Adieu, M. de Bussy.” 

Bussy hid his face in his hands. “ All is over for me,” he 
murmured. 

“What do you say?” said Diana. 

““T say, madame, that this man exiles you, that he takes from 
me the only hope left to me, that of breathing the same air as 
yourself, of seeing you sometimes, of touching your dress as you 
pass. Oh! this man is my mortal enemy, and if I perish for it, 
I will destroy him with my own hands.” 

“Oh! M. le Comte!” 

“The wretch ; it is not enough for him that you are his wife: 
you, the most beautiful and most charming of creatures, but he 
is still jealous. Jealous! The devouring monster would absorb 
the whole world !” 

“Oh! calm yourself, comte ; mon Dieu! he is excusable, 
perhaps.” 

“ He is excusable! you defend him, madame ?” 

“Oh! if you knew!” cried Diana, covering her face with her 
hands. 

“Tf Il knew! Oh! madame, I know one thing; he who is 
your husband is wrong to think of the rest of the world.” 

“ But !” cried Diana, in a broken voice, “if you were wrong, 
M. le Comte, and if he were not.” 

And the young woman, touching with her cold hand the 
burning ones of Bussy, rose and fled among the sombre alleys 


202 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


of the garden, seized Gertrude’s arm and dragged her away, be- 
fore Bussy, astonished and overwhelmed with delight, had time 
to stretch out his arms to retain her. He uttered a cry and 
tottered; Rémy arrived in time to catch him im his arms 
and make him sit down on the bench that Diana had just 
quitted. 


CHAPTER XCEL: 


HOW D’EPERNON HAD HIS DOUBLET TORN, AND HOW 
SCHOMBERG WAS STAINED BLUE. 


Wuite M. la Huritre piled signature upon signature, while 
Chicot consigned Gorenflot to the Corne d’Abondance, while 
Bussy returned to life in the happy little garden full of perfume 
and love, the king, annoyed at all he had seen in the city, and 
furious against his brother, whom he had seen pass in the Rue 
St. Honoré, accompanied by MM. de Guise and Monsoreau, 
and followed by a whole train of gentlemen, re-entered the 
Louvre, accompanied by Maugiron and Quelus. He had gone 
out with all four of his friends, but, at some steps from the 
Louvre, Schomberg and D’Epernon had profited by the first 
crush to disappear, counting on some adventures in such a tur- 
bulent night. Before they had gone one hundred yards 
D’Epernon had passed his sword-sheath between the legs of a 
citizen who was running, and who tumbled down’ in conse- 
quence, and Schomberg had pulled the cap off the head of a 
young and pretty woman. But both had badly chosen their 
day for attacking these good Parisians, generally so patient ; for 
a spirit of revolt was prevalent in the streets, and the bourgeois 


rose, crying out for aid, and the husband of the young woman 


launched his apprentices on Schomberg. He was brave; there- 
fore he stopped, put his hand on his sword, and spoke in a high 
tone. D’Epernon was prudent ; he fled. 

_Henri had entered his room at the Louvre, and, seated in 
his great arm-chair, was trembling with impatience, and seek- 
ing a good pretext for getting into a passion. Maugiron was 
playing with Narcissus, the large greyhound, and Quelus was 
sitting near. 


“They go on!’ cried Henri, “their plot advances; some- 


DEPERNON HAS HIS DOUBLET TORN. 203 


times tigers, sometimes serpents ; when they do not spring they 
glide.” . 

“Oh, sire!” said Quelus, “are there not always plots ina 
kingdom? What the devil could all the sons, brothers, and 
cousins of kings do if they did not plot?” And Quelus ir- 
reverently turned his back to the king. 

_ “Hear, Maugiron,” said the king, “with what nonsense he 
tries to put me off.” 
- “Well, sire, look at Narcissus ; he is a good dog, but when 
~ you pull his ears, he growls, and when you tread on his toes he 
f bites.” 

“Here is the other comparing me to my dog !” 

“Not so, sire; I place Narcissus far above you, for he knows 
how to defend himself, and you do not.” And he also turned 
his back. 

“ That is right,” cried the king, “ my good friends, for whom 
they accuse me of despoiling the kingdom, abandon me, insult 
me! Ah, Chicot! if you were here.” 

At this moment, however, the door opened, and D’Epernon 
appeared, without hat or cloak, and with his doublet all torn. 

“Bon Dieu !” cried Henri, “ what is the matter ?” 

“ Sire,” said D’Epernon, “look at me; see how they treat the 
friends of your majesty.” 

““Who has treated you thus ?” 

“ Mordieu, your people ; or rather the people of M. le Duc 
d'Anjou, who cried, ‘ Vive la Messe’ ‘Vive Guise? ‘Vive 
Francois !’—vive every one, in fact, except the king.” 

« And what did you do to be treated thus ?” 

“1? nothing What cana man doto a people? They re- 
cognised me for your majesty’s friend, and that was enough.” 

“But Schomberg ?” 

“Well ?” 

“ Did he not come to your aid? did he not defend you ?” 

“ Corboeuf! he had enough to do on his own account.”: 

“ How so ?” 

T left him in the hands of a dyer whose wife’s cap he had 
pulled off, and who, with his five or six apprentices, seemed 
likely to make him pass an unpleasant quarter of an hour.” 

“Par la mordieu ! and where did you leave my poor Schom- 
berg? I will go myself to his aid. ‘They may say,” continued 
he, looking at Maugiron and Quelus, “ that my friends abandon 
me, but they shall never say that I abandon them.” 


204 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Thanks, sire,” said a voice behind Henri; “thanks, but 
here I am; I extricated myself without assistance ; but, mein 
Gott ! it was not without trouble.” 

“Tt is Schomberg’s voice,” cried all, “ but where the devil is 
he ?” 

“Here I am,” cried the voice ; and indeed, in the corner of 
the room they saw something that looked not like a man but a 
shadow. 

“Schomberg,” cried the king, “where do you come from, 
and why are you that colour ?” 

Indeed, Schomberg from head to foot was of a most beautiful 
blue. 

“Der Teufel !” cried he, ‘the wretches! It is not wonderful 
that the people ran after me.” 

“But what is the matter ?” 

“The matter is, that they dipped me in a vat, the knaves; I 
believed that it was only water, but it was indigo.” 

“Oh, mordieu !” cried Quelus, bursting out laughing, “ indigo 
is very dear ; you must have carried away at least twenty crowns’ 
worth of indigo.” 

“T wish you had been in my place.” 

“And you did not kill any one ?” 

“T left my poniard somewhere, that is all I know, up to the 
hilt in a sheath of flesh ; but in a second I was taken, carried 
off, dipped in the vat, and almost drowned.” 

‘And how did you get out of their hands ?” 

“ By committing a cowardice, sire.” 

“What was that ?” 

“Crying, ‘ Vive la Ligue  ” 

“That was like me; only they made me add, ‘ Vive le Duc 
d’Anjou !” said D’Epernon. 

“And I also,” cried Schomberg; “but that is not all.” 

“What, my poor Schomberg, did they make you cry some- 
thing else ?” 

“No, that was enough, God knows; but just as I cried, 
“Vive le Duc d’Anjou,’ guess who passed.” 

“How can I guess ?” 

‘‘Bussy ; his cursed Bussy, who heard me.” 

“ He could not understand.” 

“Parbleu! it was not difficult to understand. I had a 
poniard at my throat, and I was in a vat.” 

“And he did not come to your rescue ?” 


DEPERNON HAS HIS DOUBLET TORN. 205 


“Tt seemed as though he was in a dreadful hurry ; he scarcely 
seemed to touch the ground.” 

“Perhaps he did not recognise you, as you were blue.” 

“ Ah! very likely.” 

“ He would be excusable,” said the king; “for, indeed, my 
poor Schomberg, I should hardly have known you myself.” 

“Never mind; we shall meet some other time, when I am 
not in a vat.” 

“Oh! as for me,” said D’Epernon, “ it is his master I should 
like to punish.” 

“The Duc d’Anjou, whose praises they are singing all over 
Paris,” said Quelus. 

“The fact is, that he is master of Paris to-night,” said 
D’Epernon. 

“ Ah, my brother! my brother !” cried the king. 

“ Ah! yes, sire ; you cry, ‘my brother,’ but you do nothing 
against him ; and yet it is clear to me that he is at the head of 
some plot,” said Schomberg. 

“Eh, mordieu! that is what I was saying just before you 
came in, to these gentlemen, and they replied by shrugging 
their shoulders and turning their backs.” 

“Not because you said there was a plot, sire, but because 
you do nothing to suppress it.” 

“ And, now,” said Quelus, “ we say, ‘ Save us,’ sire ; or rather, 
save yourself ; to-morrow M. de Guise will come to the Louvre, 
and ask you to name a chief for the League ; if you name M. 
d’Anjou, as you promised, he, at the head of 100,000 Parisians, 
excited by this night, can do what he likes.” 

“Then,” said Henri, “if I take a decisive step, you will 
support me ?” 

powes, sire.” 

“Tf sire, you will only give me time to remodel my dress,” 
said D’Epernon. 

“ Go to my room, D'Epernon ; my valet de chambre will give 
you what you want.” 

“ And I, sire, must have a bath,” said Schomberg. 

“Go to my bath.” 

“Then I may hope, sire, that my insult will not remain 
unavenged.” 

Henri remained silent a moment, and then said, “ Quelus, ask 
if M. d’Anjou has returned to the Louvre.” 


206 CHICOT, THE JESTER 


Quelus went, but came back, and said that the duke had not 
yet returned. 

“ Well, you, Quelus and Maugiron, go down and watch for 
his entrance.” 

“And then ?” 

“ Have all the doors shut.” 

‘Bravo ! sire.” 

“‘T will be back in ten minutes, sire,” said D’Epernon. 

“ And my stay will depend on the quality of the dye,” said 
Schomberg. 

“Come as soon as possible,” said the king. 

The young men went out, and the king, left alone, kneeled 
down on his prie-Dieu. 


CHAPTER XLV. 
CHICOT MORE THAN EVER KING OF FRANCE, 


THE gates of the Louvre were generally closed at twelve, but 
the king gave orders that they should be left open on this night 
till one. At a quarter to one Quelus came up. 

“ Sire,” said he, “the duke has come in.” 

“What is Maugiron doing ?” 

“Watching that he does not go out again.” 

“ There is no danger.” f 

“"Then——” 

“ Let him go to bed quietly. Whom has he with him 2” 

‘““M. de Monsoreau and his ordinary gentlemen.” 

“And M. de Bussy ?” 

“No; he is not there.” 

“So much the better.” 

“What are your orders, sire ?” 

“Tell Schomberg and D’Epernon to be quick, and let M. de 
Monsoreau know that I wish to speak to him.” 

Five minutes after, Schomberg and D’Epernon entered ; the 
former with only a slight blue tint left, which it would take 
several baths to eradicate, and the latter newly clothed. After 
them, M. de Monsoreau appeared. “The captain of the guards 


has just announced to me that your majesty did me the honaur 
to send for me,” said he. 


CHICOT MORE THAN EVER KING. 207 


“Yes, monsieur; when I was out this evening, I saw the 
stars so brilliant, and the moon so clear, that I thought it would 
be splendid weather for a chase to-morrow ; so, M. le Comte, 
set off at once for Vincennes, and get a stag turned out ready 
for me.” 

“ But, sire, 1 thought that to-morrow your majesty had given 
a rendezvous to Monsieur le Duc d’Anjou and M. de Guise, in 
order to name a chief for the League.” 

“ Well, monsieur ?” said the king haughtily. 

“Sire, there might not be time.” 

“There is always time, monsieur, for those who know how 
to employ it; that is why I tell you to set off at once, so that 
you may have all ready for to-morrow morning at ten. Quelus, 
Schomberg, have the door of the Louvre opened for M. de 
Monsoreau, and have it closed behind him.” 

The chief huntsman retired in astonishment. “It is a whim 
of the king’s,” said he to the young men. 

Ges,” 

They watched him out, and then returned to the king. 

“ Now,” said Henri, “silence, and all four of you follow me.” 

“Where are we going, sire 2?” said D’Epernon. 

“Those who follow will see.” ° 

The king took a lantern in his hand, and led the young men 
along the secret corridor, which led to his brother’s rooms. A 
valet-de-chambre watched here; but before he had time to warn 
his master, Henri ordered him to be silent, and the young men 
pushed him into a room and locked the door. 

Henri opened his brother’s door. Francois had gone to bed 
full of dreams of ambition, which the events of the evening had 
nourished: he had heard his name exalted, and the king’s abused. 
Conducted by the Duc de Guise, he had seen the Parisians 
open everywhere for him and his gentlemen, while those of the 
king were insulted and hooted. Never since the commence- 
ment of his career had he been so popular, and consequently so 
hopeful. He had placed on the table a letter from M. de Guise, 
which had been brought to him by M. de Monsoreau. His sur- 
prise and terror were great when he saw the secret door open, 
and still more when he recognised the king. Henri signed to 
his companions to remain on the threshold, and advanced to 
the bed, frowning, but silené. 

“Sire,” stammered the duke, “ the honour that your majesty 
does me is so unlooked for——” 


208 CHICOT; TE. JESTEiks 


“That it frightens you, does it not? But stay where you are, 
my brother ; do not rise.” 

“ But, sire, only—permit me——’” and he drew towards him 
the letter of M. de Guise. 

‘“‘ Vou were reading 2?” asked the king. 

sVes, sire.” 

“Something interesting to keep you awake at this time of 
night ?” 

‘Oh, sire, nothing very important ; the evening courier 

“Oh yes, I understand—Courier of Venus ; but no, I see I 
am wrong—they do not seal billet-doux with seals of that size.” 

The duke hid the letter altogether. 

“ How discreet this dear Francois is !” said the king, with a 
smile which frightened his brother. However, making an effort 
to recover himself, he said : 

“ Did your majesty wish to say anything particular to me ?” 

‘‘What I have to say to you, monsieur, I wish to say before 
witnesses. Here, gentlemen,” continued he, turning to the four 
young men, “listen to us; I order you.” 

“Sire,” said the duke, with a glance full of rage and hatred, 
“before insulting a man of my rank, you should have refused 
me the hospitality of the Louvre; in the Hotel d’Anjou, at 
least, I should have been free to reply to you.” 

“ Really, you forget, then, that wherever you are, you are my 
subject ; that I am the king, and that every house is mine.” 

*¢ Sire, I am at the Louvre, at my mother’s.” 

“And your mother is in my house. But to the point—give 
me that paper.” ‘ 

“¢ Which >” 

“That which you were reading, which was on your table, and 
which you hid when I came in.” 

«Sire, reflect.” 

* On what 2” 

‘On this, that you are making a request unworthy of a gentle- 
man, and fit only for a police-officer.” 

The king grew livid. “That letter, monsieur !” 

“A woman’s letter, sire.” 

“There are some women’s letters very good to see, and dan- 
gerous not to see—such as those our mother writes.” 

“ Brother !” 

“This letter, monsieur !” cried the king, stamping his foot, 
“or I will have it torn from you by my Swiss !” 


”» 





CHICOT MORE THAN EVER KING. 204 


The duke jumped out of bed, with the letter crumpled in his 
hand, evidently with the intention of approaching the fire. But 
Henri, divining his intention, placed himself between him and 
the fire. 

“ You would not treat your brother thus ?” cried the duke. 

“ Not my brother, but my mortal enemy. Not my brother, 
but the Duc d’Anjou, who went all through Paris with M. de 
Guise, who tries to hide from mea letter from one of his accom- 
plices, the Lorraine princes.” 

“This time,” said the duke, “ your police are wrong.” 

“T tell you I saw on the seal the three merlets of Lorraine. 
Give it to me, mordieu ! or——” 

Henri advanced towards his brother and laid his hand on 
his shoulder. Francois had no sooner felt the touch of his 
hand than, falling on his knees, he cried out, ‘‘ Help! help! 
my brother is going to kill me.” 

These words, uttered in an accent of profound terror, startled 
the king and mitigated his rage. The idea passed quickly 
through his mind that in their family, as by a curse, brother had 
always assassinated brother. 

“No, my brother,” said he, “you are wrong; I do not 
wish to hurt you, but you cannot contend with me. I[ am 
the master, and if you did not know it before, you know it 
now.” 

“Yes, my brother, I acknowledge it.” 

“Very well, then give me that letter ; the king orders it.” 

The duke let it fall, and the king picked it up, but without 
reading it put it in his pocket-book. 

“Ts that all ?” said the duke, with his sinister glance. 

“No, monsieur, you must keep your room until my suspi- 
cions with respect to you are completely dissipated. The room 
is commodious, and not much like a prison; stay here. You 
will have good company—at least, outside the door, for this night 
these four gentlemen will guard yon; to-morrow they will be 
relieved by a guard of Swiss.” 

“‘But, my friends—cannot I see them ?” 

“Who do you call your friends ?” 

“M. de Monsoreau, M. de Ribeirac, M. Antragues, and M. 
de Bussy.” 

‘Oh, yes, he, of course.” 


“Has he ha the misfortune to displease your majesty ?” 


14 


210 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


‘«‘ When, sire P” 

“ Always, but particularly to night.” 

“To-night ! what did he do?” 

“ Insulted me in the streets of Paris.” 

“You?” 

“ My followers, which is the same thing.” 

“‘ Bussy ! you have been deceived, sire.” 

‘¢T know what I say.” 

“Sire, M. de Bussy has not been out of his hotel for two 
days. He is at home, ill in bed, burning with fever.” 

The king turned to Schomberg, who said, ‘‘ If he had fever, 
at all events he had it in the Rue Coquilliere.” 

“Who told you he was there ?” said the duke. 

“T saw him.” 

“ You saw Bussy out of doors !” 

“Yes, looking well and happy, and accompanied by his ordi- 
nary follower, that Rémy.” 

“Then I do not understand it ; I saw him in bed myself ; 
he must have deceived me.” 

“Tt is well; he will be punished with the rest,” said the king. 

“Tf M. de Bussy went out alone after refusing to go out 
with me——” 

“You hear, gentlemen, what my brother says. But we will 
talk of him another time; now I recommend my brother to 
your care; you will have the honour of serving as guard to a 
prince of the blood.” 

“Oh! sire,” said Quelus, “be satisfied; we know what we 
owe to M. le Duc.” 

“Tt is well; adieu, gentlemen.” 

“Sire,” cried the duke, “am I really a prisoner, are my 
friends not to visit me, and am I not to go out ?” And the idea 
of the next day presented itself to his mind, when his presence 
would be so necessary to M. de Guise. “Sire,” cried he again, 
“let me at least remain near your majesty ; it is my place, and I 
can be as well guarded there as elsewhere. Sire, grant me this 
favour.” ‘ 

The king was about to yield to this request and say, “ Yes,” 
when his attention was attracted to the door, where a long body, 
with its arms, its head, and everything that it could move, was 
making signs to him to say, ‘ No.” It was Chicot. 

“No,” said Henri to his brother; “you are very well here, 
and here you must stay.” . 


CHICO’ PA VS A VISIT TO BUSSY. 211 


) 


* Sire—— 

“Tt is my pleasure, and that is enough,” said the king, 
haughtily. 

“T said I was the real King of France,” murmured Chicot. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 
HOW CHICOT PAID A VISIT TO BUSSY, AND WHAT FOLLOWED. 


THE next morning, about nine, Bussy was eating his breakfast, 
and talking with Rémy over the events of the previous day. 

“Rémy,” said he, “did you not think you had seen some- 
where that gentleman whom they were dipping in a vat in the 
Rue Coquilliere ?” 

“Ves, M. le Comte, but I cannot think of his name.” 

“T ought to have helped him,” said Bussy, “it is a duty one 
gentleman owes to another ; but, really, Rémy, I was too much 
occupied with my own affairs.” 

“But he must have recognised us, for we were our natura] 
colour, and it seemed to me that he rolled his eyes frightfully, 
and shook his fist at us.” 

“ Are you sure of that, Rémy? We must find out who it 
was ; I cannot let such an insult pass.” 

“Oh!” cried Rémy, ‘I know now who he was.” 

“ How so ?” 

“JT heard him swear.” 

“J should think so; any one would have sworn in such 4 
situation.” 

“© Yes, but he swore in German.” 

Bah ” 

“ Ves, he said, ‘ Gott verdomme.’” 

“Then it was Schomberg ?” 

“ Himself, M. le Comte.” 

“Then, my dear Rémy, get your salves ready.” 

*‘ Why so, monsieur?” 

*“ Because, before long, you will have to apply them either to 
his skin or to nine.” 

“Vou would not be so foolish as to get killed, now you are 
so well and“so happy; St. Marie l’Egyptienne has cured you 
once, but she will get tired of working miracles for you.” 

I4—2 


212 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“ On the contrary, Rémy, you cannot tell how pleasant it feels 
to risk your life when you are happy. I assure you I never 
fought with a good heart when I had lost large sums at play, 
when things had gone wrong, or when I had anything to reproach 
myself with ; but when my purse is full, my heart light, and my 
conscience clear, I go boldly to the field, for I am sure of my 
hand; it is then I am brilliant. I should fight well to-day, 
Rémy, for, thanks to you,” said he, extending his hand to the 
young man, “ I am very happy.” 

“ Stay a moment, however ; you will, I hope, deprive your- 
self of this pleasure. A beautiful lady of my acquaintance 
made me swear to keep you safe and sound, under pretext that 
your life belongs to her.” 

“Good Rémy !” 

“You call me good Rémy, because I brought you to see 
Madame de Monsoreau, but shall you call me so when you are 
separated from her ? and unluckily the day approaches, if it be 
not come.” 

“What do you mean ?” 

“Do you not know that she is going to Anjou, and that I 
a have the grief of being separated from Gertrude. 
iNpee 

Bussy could not help smiling at the pretended grief of the 
young man. 

“You love her, then ?” he said. 

“T should think so; you should see how she beats me.” 

“And you let her do it ?” 

“Oh | yes.” / 

“But to return to Diana, Rémy: when shall we set off?” 


‘Ah! I expected that. On the latest possible day I should 
say.” 


SAVES 

“Firstly, because it seems to me that M. le Duc d’Anjou 
will want you here.” 

SANGLeL P 

“Because M. de Monsoreau, by a special blessing, does not 
suspect you in the least, and would suspect something imme- 


diately if he saw you disappear from Paris at the same time as 
his wife.” 


“What do I care for that ?” 


73 Cj . ‘ 
No; butI care. I charge myself with curirig the sword 
strokes received in duels, for, as you manage your sword well, 





CHICOT PAYS A VISIT TO BUSSY. 213 


you never receive very serious ones; but not the blows given 
secretly by jealous husbands ; they are animals, who, in such 
cases, strike hard.” 

“ Well ! my dear friend, if it is my destiny to be killed by 
M. de Monsoreau.” 

evel!’ 

“Well ! he will kill me.” 

“‘ And then, a week after, Madame de Monsoreau will be re- 
conciled to her husband, which will dreadfully enrage your poor 
soul, which will see it from above or below, without being able 
to prevent it.” 

“ You are right, Rémy ; I will live.” 

“Quite right; but that is not all, you must be charmingly 
polite to him ; he is frightfully jealous of the Duc d’Anjou, who, 
while you were ill in bed, promenaded before the house with his 
Aurilly. Make advances, then, to this charming husband, and 
do not even ask him what has become of his wife, since you 
know quite well.” 

“You are right, Rémy, I believe. Now I am no longer jealous 
of the bear, I will be civil to him.” 

At this moment some one knocked at the door. 

“* Who is there ?” cried Bussy. 

“ Monsieur,” replied a page, “there is a gentleman below who 
wishes to speak to you.” 

“To speak to me so early ; who is it ?’ 

“A tall gentleman, dressed in green velvet.” 

“Can it be Schomberg ?” 

“ He said a tall man.” 

“True, then Monsoreau, perhaps ; weil, let him enter.” 

After a minute the visitor entered. 

“M. Chicot !” cried Bussy. 

“ Himself, M. le Comte.” 

Rémy retired into another room, and then Chicot said, “ Mon- 
sieur, I come to propose to you a little bargain.” 

“ Speak, monsieur,” said Bussy, in great surprise. 

“What will you promise me if I render you a great ser- 
vice P” 

‘That depends on the service, monsieur,” replied Bussy, dis- 
dainfully. 

Chicot feigned not to remark this air of disdain. ‘‘ Monsieur,” 
said he, sitting down and crossing his long legs, “ I remark that 
you do not ask me to sit down,” 


214 CHICOT, THE JESTER, 


The colour mounted to Bussy’s face. 

“ Monsieur,” continued Chicot, “have you heard of the 
League ?” 

“T have heard much of it,” said Bussy. 

“Well, monsieur, you ought to know that it is an association 
of honest Christians, united for the purpose of religiously mas- 
sacring their neighbours, the Huguenots. Are you of the League, 
monsieur? I am.” 

“ But monsieur 

“ Say only yes, or no.’ 

“ Allow me to express my astonishment 2 

‘I did myself the honour of asking you if you belonged 
to the League.” 

““M. Chicot, as I do not like questions whose import i do 
not understand, I beg you to change the conversation before 
I am forced to tell you that I do not like questioners. Come, 
M. Chicot, we have but a few minutes left.” 

“Well! ina few minutes one can say a great deal; how- 
ever, I might have dispensed with asking you the question, as if 
you do not belong to the League now, you soon will, as M. 
d’Anjou does.” 

“MM. d’Anjou! Who told you that?” 

“‘ Himself, speaking to me in person, as the gentlemen of 
the law say, or rather write ; for example, that dear M. Nicolas 
David, that star of the Forum Parisiense. Now you understand 
that as M. d’Anjou belongs to the League, you cannot help be- 
longing to it also; you, who are his right arm. THe League 
knows better than to accept a maimed chief.” 

“Well, M. Chicot, what then 2” 

“Why, if you do belong to it, or they think you are likely to 
do so, what has happened to his royal highness will certainly 
happen to you.” 

‘“‘ And what has happened to him 2” 

“Monsieur,” said Chicot, rising and imitating M. de Bussy’s 
manner of a little before, «eT do not love questions, nor ques- 
tioners, therefore I have a great mind to let them do to you 
what they have done to-night to the duke.” 

““M. Chicot,” said Bussy, with a smile, “ speak, I beg of you ;. 
where is the duke ?” 

“He is in prison 2” 

““ Where ?” 


“In his own room. Four of my good friends guard him, 


” 











CHICOT PAYS A VISIT TO BUSSY. 215 


M. de Schomberg, who was dyed blue yesterday, as you know, 
since you passed during the operation; M. d’Epernon, who is 
yellow from the fright he had ; M, de Quelus, who is red with 
anger; and M. de Maugiron, who is white with ennui; it is 
beautiful to see; not to speak of the duke, who is going green 
with terror, so that we shall have a perfect rainbow to delight 
our eyes.” 

“Then, monsieur, you think my liberty in danger ?” 

“Danger! monsieur ; suppose that they are already on the 
way to arrest you.” 

Bussy shuddered. 

“Do you like the Bastille, M. de Bussy? it is a good place 
for meditation, and M. Laurent Testu, the governor, keeps a 
good cook.” 

“They would send me to the Bastille >” 

“Ma foi! I ought to have in my pocket something like an 
order to conduct you there. Would you like to see it?” and 
Chicot drew from his pocket an order from the king in due 
form, to apprehend, wherever he might be, M. Louis de Cler- 
mont, Seigneur de Bussy. “ Written very nicely by M. Quelus,” 
continued Chicot. 

“Then, monsieur,” cried Bussy, ‘ you are really rendering 
me a service ?” 

“T think so; do you agree with me?” 

“ Monsieur, I beg you to tell me why you do it ; for you love 
the king, and he hates me.” 

“MM. le Comte, I save you; think what you please of my 
action. But do you forget that I asked for a recompense ?” 

<< Ah, true.” 

= Well?” 

“ Most willingly, monsieur.” 

“ Then some day you will do what I ask you ?” 

“On my honour, if possible.” 

“ That is enough. Now mount your horse and disappear ; I 
go to carry this order to those who are to use it.” 

“Then you were not to arrest me yourself ?” 

“T! for what do you take me ?” 

“ But I should abandon my master.” 

“Have no scruples ; he abandons you.” 

*“ You are a gentleman, M. Chicot.” 

Bussy called Rémy. To do him justice, he was listening at 
the door, 


216 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Rémy, our horses!” 

“They are saddled, monsieur.” 

“ Ah’ said Chicot, “this young man knows what he is 
about.” 

Bussy thanked Chicot once more, and went down. 

“‘ Where are we going ?” said Rémy. 

“ Well——” said Bussy, hesitating. 

“What do you say to Normandy 2” said Chicot. 

“Tt is too near.” 

“Flanders, then ?” 

“Noo far.” 

Anjou is a reasonable distance, monsieur,” said Rémy. 

“Well, then, Anjou,” said Bussy, colouring. 

‘“¢ Adieu, monsieur !” said Chicot. 

“Tt is destiny,” said Rémy, when he was gone. 

“Tet us be quick, and perhaps we may overtake her,” said 
Bussy, 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


THE CHESS OF M. CHICOT, AND THE CUP AND BALL OF 
M. QUELUS. 


CuicorT returned joyfully to the Louvre. It was a great satis- 
faction to him to have saved a brave gentleman like Bussy. 

M. de Guise, after having received in the morning the prin- 
cipal Leaguers, who came to bring him the registers filled with 
signatures, and after having made them all swear to recognise 
the chief that the king should appoint, went out to visit M. 
d’Anjou, whom he had lost sight of about ten the evening be- 
fore. The duke found the prince’s valet rather unquiet at his 
master’s absence, but he imagined that he had slept at the 
Louvre. 

The Duc de Guise asked to speak to Aurilly, who was most 
likely to know where his master was. Aurilly came, but stated 
he had been separated from the prince the evening before by a 
pressure of the crowd, and had come to the Hotel d’Anjou to 
wait for him, not knowing that his highness had intended to 
sleep at the Louvre. He added that he had just sent to the 


THE CHESS OF M.-CHICOT. 217 


Louvre to inquire, and that a message had been returned that 
the duke was still asleep. 

“ Asleep at eleven o'clock ! not likely. You ought to go to 
the Louvre. Aurilly.” 

‘“‘T did think of it, monseigneur, but I feared that this was 
only a tale invented to satisfy my messenger, and that the prince 
was seeking pleasure elsewhere, and might be annoyed at my 
seeking him” 

“Oh, no; the duke has too much sense to be pleasure-seeking 
on a day like this. Go to the Louvre ; ycu will be sure to find 
him there.” 

“J will if you wish it; but what shall I say to him ?” 

“Say that the convocation at the Louvre is fixed for two 
o'clock, and that it is necessary that we should have a confer- 
ence first. It is not at the time when the king is about to 
choose a chief for the League that he should be sleeping.” 

“Very well, monseigneur, I will beg his highness to come 
here.” 

‘And say that I am waiting impatiently for him. Meanwhile 
I will go and seek M. de Bussy.” 

“But if I do not find his highness, what am I to do ?” 

“Then make no further search for him. In any event I shall 
be at the Louvre at a quarter before two.” 

Aurilly passed through the courtiers who crowded the Louvre, 
and made his way to the duke’s apartments. At the door he 
found Chicot playing chess. Aurilly tried to pass, but Chicot, 
with his long legs blocked up the doorway. He was forced to 
touch him on the shoulder. 

“ Ah, it is you, M. Aurilly.” 

“What are you doing, M. Chicot ?” 

*‘ Playing chess, as you see.” 

“* All alone ?” 

“Ves, I am studying; do you play ?” 

“Very little.” 

“Ves, I know you are a musician, and music is so difficult 
an art, that those who give themselves to it must sacrifice all 
their time.” 

“ You seem very serious over your game.” 

“Ves, it is my king who disquiets me; you must know, M. 
Aurilly, that at chess the king is a very insignificant person, 
who has no will, who can only go one step forward or back, or 
one to the right or left, while he is surrounded by active enemies, 


218 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


by knights who jump three squares at a time, by a crowd of 
pawns who surround him, so that if he be badly counselled he 
is a ruined king in no time, ma fol.” : 

“ But, M. Chicot, how does it happen that you are studying 
this at the door of his royal highness’ room?” 

“ Because I am waiting for M. Quelus, who is in there,” 

HW here p” 

“With his highness.” ; 

“With his highness! What is he doing there? I did not 
think they were such friends.” 

“ Hush!” then he whispered in Aurilly’s ear, “he is come to 
ask pardon of the duke for a little quarrel they had yester- 
day.” 

“ Really !” 

“Tt was the king who insisted on it ; you know on what ex- 
cellent terms the brothers are just now. The king would not 
suffer an impertinence of Quelus’s to pass, and ordered him to 
apologise.” 

“ Really !” 

“ Ah! M. Aurilly, I think that we are entering the golden 
age; the Louvre is about to become Arcadia, and the two 
brothers Arcades ambo.” 

Aurilly smiled, and passed into the antechamber, where he 
was courteously saluted by Quelus, between whose hands a 
superb cup and ball of ebony inlaid with ivory was making 
rapid evolutions. 

“Bravo! M. Quelus,” said Aurilly. ‘ 

““Ah! my dear M. Aurilly, when shall I play cup and ball 
as well as you play the lute ?” 

‘When you have studied your plaything as long as I have 
my instrument. But where is monseigneur? I thought you 
were with him.” 

“‘T have an audience with him, but Schomberg comes first.” 

“What! M. de Schomberg, also !” 

“Oh! mon Dieu; yes. The king settled all that, He is 
in the next room. Enter, M. Aurilly, and remind the prince — 
that we are waiting for him.” 

Aurilly opened the second door and saw Schomberg reclining 
on a kind of couch, from which he amused himself by sending 
from a tube little balls of earth through a gold ring, suspended 
from the ceiling by a silk thread, while a favourite dog brought 
him back the balls as they fell, 


THE CHESS OF M, CHICOT, 219 


“ Ah! guten morgen, M. Aurilly, you see I am amusing my- 
self while I wait for my audience.” 

“But where is monseigneur >” 

“Oh! he is occupied in pardoning D’Epernon and Mau- 
giron. But will you not enter, you who are privileged ?” 

“Perhaps it would be indiscreet.” 

“ Not at all; enter, M. Aurilly, enter.” And he pushed him 
into the next room, where the astonished musician perceived 
D’Epernon before a mirror, occupied in stiffening his mus. 
tachios, while Maugiron, seated near the window, was cutting 
out engravings, by the side of which the bas-reliefs on the 
temple of Venus Aphrodite would have looked holy. 

The duke, without his sword, was in his arm-chair between 
these two men, who only looked at him to watch his move- 
ments, and only spoke to him to say something disagreeable : 
seeing Aurilly, he got up to meet him. 

“Take care, monseigneur,” said Maugiron, “ you are stepping 
on my figures.” 

‘Mon Dieu !” cried the musician, “he insults my master !” 

“Dear M. Aurilly,” said D’ Epernon, still arranging his mus- 
tachios, ‘how are you ?” 

“Be so kind as to bring me here your little dagger,” said 
Maugiron. 

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, do you not remember where you 
are P” 

“Yes, yes, my dear Orpheus, that is why I ask for your 
dagger ; you see M. le Duc has none.” 

“ Aurilly !” cried the duke, in a tone full of grief and rage, 
“‘do you not see that I am a prisoner ?” 

“A prisoner! to whom ?” 

“To my brother ; you might know that by my gaolers.” 

“Oh! if I had but guessed it.” 

“You would have brought your lute to amuse his highness,” 
said a mocking voice behind them, ‘‘but I thought of. it, and 
sent for it; here it is.’ 

“How does your chess go on, Chicot ?” said D’Epernon. 

“‘T believe I shall save the king, but it is not without trouble. 
Come, M. Aurilly, give me your poniard i in return for the lute ; 
a fair exchange.” 

The astonished musician obey ed. 

‘ There is one rat in the trap,” said Quelus, who returned to 


220 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


his post in the antechamber, only exchanging his cup and ball 
for Schomberg’s shooting tube. 

“Tt is amusing to vary one’s pleasures,” said Chicot; “so 
for a change I will go and sign the League.” 


CHAPTER XLVIIL 
THE RECEPTION OF THE CHIEFS OF THE LEAGUE. 


Tue time for the great reception drew near. Paris, nearly as 
tumultuous as the evening before, had sent towards the Louvre 
its deputation of leaguers, its bodies of workmen, its sheriffs, 
its militia, and its constantly-increasing masses of spectators. 

The king, on his throne in the great hall, was surrounded by 
his officers, his friends, his courtiers, and his family, waiting for 
all the corporations to defile before him, when M. de Monso- 
reau entered abruptly. 

“ Look, Henriquet,” said Chicot, who was standing near the 
king. 

“* At what ?” 

‘“ At your chief huntsman ; pardieu, he is well worth it. See 
how pale and dirty he is !” 

Henri made a sign to M. de Monsoreau, who approached. 

“* How is it that you are at the Louvre, monsieur ? I thought 
you at Vincennes.” y 

“Sire, the stag was turned off at seven o’clock this morning, 
but when noon came, and I had no news, I feared that some 
misfortune had happened to your majesty, and I returned.” 

“Really !” 

‘Sire, if I have done wrong, attribute it to an excess of de- 
votion.” 

“Yes, monsieur, and I appreciate it.” 

“Now,” said the count, hesitatingly, ‘‘if your majesty wishes 
me to return to Vincennes, as I am reassured——” 

“No, no, stay ; this chase was a fancy which came into our 
head, and which went as it came; do not go away, I want 
near me devoted subjects, and you have just classed yourself 
as such.” 

Monsoreau bowed, and said, “ Where does your majesty wish 
me to remain ?” | 


THE RECEPTION OF THE CHIEFS. 23% 


** Will you give him to me for half an hour ?” said Chicot to 
the king, in a low voice. 

“What for ?” 

“To torment him a little. You owe me some compensation 
for obliging me to be present at this tiresome ceremony.” 

“Well, take him.” 

“Where does your majesty wish me to stand ?” again asked 
M. de Monsoreau 

“ Where you like; go behind my arm-chair, that is where I 
put my friends.” 

“Come here,” said Chicot, making room for M. de Monso- 
reau, “come and get the scent of these fellows. Here is game 
which can be tracked without a hound. Here are the shoe- 
makers who pass, or rather who have passed ; then here are the 
tanners. Mort de ma vie! if you lose their scent, I will take 
away your place.” 

M. de Monsoreau listened mechanically ; he seemed pre- 
occupied, and looked round him anxiously. 

“Do you know what your chief huntsman is hunting for 
now ?” said Chicot, in an undertone, to the king. 

7 No.” 

“ Your brother.” 

“The game is not in sight,” 

“Just ask him where his countess is,” 

“ What for >?” 

“ Just ask.” 

“M. le Comte,” said Henri, “‘what have you done with Ma- 
dame de Monsoreau? I do not see her here.” 

The count started, but replied, “Sire, she is ill, the air of 
Paris did not agree with her; so having obtained leave from 
the queen, she set out last night, with her father, for Me- 
ridor.” 

“ Paris is not good for women in her situation,” said Chicot. 

Monsoreau grew pale and looked furiously at him. 

“This poor countess !” continued Chicot, “she will die of 
ennui by the way.” 

“‘T said that she travelled with her father.” 

“A father is very respectable, I allow, but not very amusing ; 
and if she had only that worthy baron to amuse her it would be 
sad ; but luckily——” 

“‘ What !” cried the count. 

“What ?” 


222 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 

“What do you mean by ‘luckily’ ?”’ 

« Ah, it was an ellipsis I used.” 

The count shrugged his shoulders. _ 

“Oh, but it was. Ask Henri, who is a man of letters.” 

“Yes,” said the king ; “ but what did your adverb mean ?” 

“What adverb ?” 

cere uckily,””’ 

“<Tuckily’ means luckily. Luckily, then, there exist some 
of our friends, and very amusing ones, who, if they meet the 
countess, will amuse her, and as they are going the same way, 
it is probable they will. Oh, I see them from here; do you 
not, Henri; you, who are a man of imagination? There 
they go, on a good road, well mounted, and saying sweet things 
to Madame la’ Comtesse, which she likes very much, dear 
lady.” 

AL de Monsoreau was furious, but he could not show it be- 
fore the king; so he said as mildly as he could, “ What, have 
you friends travelling to Anjou ?” 

“Good ; pretend to be mysterious.” 

“T swear to you——” 

“Oh! you know they are there, although I saw you just now 
seeking for them mechanically among the crowd.” 

“You saw me P” 

“Yes, you, the palest of all chief huntsmen, past, present, 
and future, from Nimrod to M. d’Aulefort, your predecessor.” 

“Vi ‘Chicot:.!” 

“The palest, I repeat.” / 

“ Monsieur, will you return to the friends of whom you spoke, 
and be so good as to name them, if your superabundant im- 
agination will let you.” 

“Seek, monsieur. Morbleu, it is your occupation to hunt 
out animals, witness the unlucky stag whom you deranged this 
morning, and who thought it very unkind of you. Seek.” 

The eyes of M. de Monsoreau wandered anxiously again. 

“What !” cried he, seeing a vacant place by the king, “not 
the Duc d’Anjou ?” 

“Taint ! Taint ! tie beast is found.” 

“ie is gone to-day.” 

_ “He is gone to-day, but it is possible that he set out last 
night. When did your brother disappear, Henri ?” 

“ Last night.” 


66 ) 
The duke gone !” murmured Monsoreau, paler than ever. 


| 
| 


- 
‘ 


: 


THE RECEFTION OF THE CHIEFS. 223 


“‘T do not say he is gone, I say only that he disappeared last 
night, and that his best friends do not know where he is,” said 
the king. 

“Oh!” cried the count, “if I thought so——” 

“ Well; what should you do? Besides, what harm if he does 
talk nonsense to Madame de Monsoreau? He is the gallant 
of the family, you know.” 

“Tam lost! murmured the count, trying to go away. But 
Chicot detained him. 

“Keep still; mordieu ! you shake the king’s chair. Mort de 
ma vie, your wife will be quite happy with the prince to talk 
to, and M. Aurilly to play the lute to her.” 

Monsoreau trembled with anger. 

“Quietly, monsieur,” continued Chicot ; “hide your joy, here 
is the business beginning ; you should not show your feelings so 
openly; listen to the discourse of the king.” 

M. de Monsoreau was forced to keep quiet. M. de Guise 
entered and knelt before the king, not without throwing an un- 
easy glance of surprise on the vacant seat of M. d’Anjov. The 
king rose, and the heralds commanded silence. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


HOW THE KING NAMED A CHIEF WHO WAS NEITHER THE DUC DE 
GUISE NOR M. D’ANJOU. 


“ GENTLEMEN,” said the king, after assuring himself that his four 
friends, now replaced by ten Swiss, were behind him, “2 king 
hears equally the voices which come to him from above and 
from below, that is to say, what is commanded by God, or asked 
by his people. I understand perfectly that there is a guarantee 
for my people, in the association of all classes which has been 
formed to defend the Catholic faith, and therefore I approve of 
the counsels of my cousin De Guise. I declare, then, the Holy 
League duly constituted, and as so great a body must have a 
powerful head, and as it is necessary that the chief called to 
sustain the Church should be one of its most zealous sons, I 
hoose a Christian prince for the chief, and declare that this 
hief shall be”—he made a slight pause—‘ Henri de Valois, 
ing of France and Poland.” 





- om 


224 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


The Duc de Guise was thunderstruck. Large drops stood 

on his forehead, and he looked from one to the other of his 
brothers. All the leaguers uttered a murmur of surprise and 
discontent. The cardinal stole up to his brother, and whis- 
pered : 
“Francois, I fear we are no longer in safety here. Let us 
haste to take leave, for the populace is uncertain, and the king, 
whom they execrated yesterday, will be their idol for two or three 
days. 
ae this time the king had signed the act prepared before- 
hand by "M. de Morvilliers, the only person, with the exception 
of the queen mother, who was in the secret, then he passed the 
pen to the Duc de Guise, saying : 

“Sign, my cousin; there, below me, now pass it to M. le 
Cardinal and M. de Mayenne. Z 

But these two had already disappeared. The king remarked 
their absence, and added, ‘“ Then pass the pen to M. de Mon- 
soreau.” 

The duke did so, and was about to retire, but the king 
said, ‘“ Wait.” 

And while the others signed, he added, ‘‘ My cousin, it was 
your advice, I believe, to guard Paris with a good army, com- 
posed of all the forces of the League. The army is made, and 
the natural general of the Parisians is the king.” 

“ Assuredly, sire.” 

“ But I do not forget that there is another army to command, 
and that this belongs of right to the bravest soldier i in my king- 
dom ; therefore go and command Me army.’ 

* And when am I to set out, sire 

“ Immediately.” 

“Henri, Henri !” whispered Chicot ; but, in spite of his signs 
and grimaces, the king gave the duke his brevet ready signed. 
He took it and retired, and was soon out of Paris. The rest Ow 
the assembly dispersed gradually, crying, “ Vive le Roi! and) 
Vive la Ligue !” 

“Oh, sire!” cried the favourites, approaching the king, 
“what a sublime idea you have had !” 

“They think that gold is going to rain on them like manna,”, 
said Chicot, who followed his master about everywhere with 
lamentations. As soon as they were left alone, “Ah! M. Chi- 
cot !” said Henri, “ you are never content. Diable ! I do not — 
ask even for complaisance, but for good sense.’ : a 





a 


a 


THE KING NAMES A CHIEF. 225 


* You are right, Henri; it is what you want most.” 

“Confess I have done well.” 

“ That is just what I do not think.” 

“Ah! you are jealous, M. Roi de France.” 

“J! Heaven forbid. I shall choose better subjects for 
jealousy.” 

“ Corbleu.” 

“Oh! what self-love.” 

“Am I or not king of the League ?” 

* Certainly you are; but———” 

© But what ?” 

“You are no longer King of France.” 

** And who is-king then 2?” 

“Everybody, except you ; firstly, your brother——” 

*¢ My brother !” 

“Yes, M. d’Anjou.” 

“Whom I hold prisoner.” 

‘Ves, but prisoner as he is, he was consecrated.” 

“ By whom was he consecrated ?” 

“By the Cardinal de Guise. Really, Henri, you have a fine 
police. ‘They consecrate a king at Paris before thirty-three 
people, in the church of St. Genevieve, and you do not know 
of it !” 

“Oh! and you do ?” 

“Certainly I do.” 

* How can you know what I do not ?” 

* Ah! because M. de Morvilliers manages your police, and I 
am my own.” 

The king frowned. 

“Well, then, without counting Henri de Valois, we have 
Francois d’Anjou for king,” continued Chicot ; “ and then there 
is the Duc de Guise.” 

“The Duc de Guise !” 

“Yes, Henri de Guise, Henri le Balfré.” 

“ A fine king ! whom I exile, whom I send to the army.” 

‘Good ! as if you were not exiled to Poland ; and La Charité 
is nearer to the Louvre than Cracow is. Ah, yes, you send him 
to the army—that is so clever; that is to say, you put thirty 
thousand men under his orders, ventre de biche ! and a real 
army, not like your army of the League; no, no, an army of 
bourgeois is good for Henri de Valois, but Henri de Guise 
must have an army of soldiers—and what soldiers? hardened 

15 


226 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


‘warriors, capable of destroying twenty armies of the League ; so 
that if, being king in fact, Henri de Guise had the folly one day 
to wish to be so in name, he would only have to turn towards 
the capital, and say, ‘ Let us swallow Paris, and Henri de Valois 
and the Louvre at a mouthful,’ and the rogues would doit, I 
know them.” : By. 

‘Vou forget one thing in your argument, illustrious politician.” 

“ Ah, diable! it is possible! If you mean a fourth king=——” 

“No; you forget that before thinking of reigning in France, 
when a Valois is on the throne, it would be necessary to look 
back and count your ancestors. That such an idea might come 
to M. d’Anjou is possible ; his ancestors are mine, and it is only 
a question of primogeniture. But M. de Guise !” 

‘Ah! that is just where you are in error.” 

“‘ How so ?” 

‘““M. de Guise is of a better race than you think.” 

“‘ Better than me, perhaps,” said Henri, smiling. 

“There is no perhaps in it.” 

“You are mad. Learn to read, my friend.” 

‘Well, Henri, you who can read, read this ;” and he drew 
from his pocket the genealogy which we know already, handing 
it to Henri, who turned pale as he recognised, near to the sig- 
nature of the prelate, the seal of St. Peter. 

“What do you say, Henri?. Are not your fleur-de-lys thrown 
a little in the background ?” 

“But how did you get this genealogy ?” 

“IT! Do I seek these things? It came to seek me.” 

“Where ?” 

“‘ Under the bolster of a lawyer.” 

“ And what was his name ?” 

**M. Nicolas David.” 

“‘ Where was he 2” 

(74 At Lyons.” 

* And who took it from under the bolster ?” 

“One of my good friends.” 

“Who is he >” 

“A monk:? 

“ His name ?” 

“ Gorenflot.” 


“What! that abominable leaguer, who uttered those incendiary 


ee ig at St. Genevieve, and again yesterday in the streets of 
aris ? 


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‘WELL, HENRI, YOU WIIO CAN READ, READ THIS.” 





ETEOCLES AND POLYNICES. 229 


“You temember the history of Brutus, who pretended to be 
a fool ?” 

“ He is, then, a profound politician? Did he take it from 
the advocate ?” 

| Wes, by force.” 

“Then he is brave ?” 

“Brave as Bayard.” 

“ And having done this, he has not asked for any recompense?” 

“ He returned humbly to his convent, and only asks me to 
forget that he ever came out.” 

“Then he is modest ?” 

ase ot. Crepin.” 

“Chicot, your friend shall be made a prior on the first 
vacancy.” 

“Thanks for him, Henri.” 

“Ma foi!” said Chicot to himself, “if he escapes being hung 
by Mayenne, he will have an abbey.” 


CHAPTER L. 
ETEOCLES AND POLYNICES. 


Tuis day of the League terminated brilliantly and tumultuously, 
as it began. ‘The friends of the king rejoiced, the preachers 
proposed to canonize Brother Henri, and spoke everywhere of 
the great deeds of the Valois. The favourites said, “ The lion 
is roused.” ‘The leaguers said, “The fox has discovered the 
snare.” 

The three Lorraine princes, as we have seen, had left Paris, 
and their principal agent, M. de Monsoreau, was ready to start 
for Anjou. But as he was leaving the Louvre, Chicot stopped 
him. 

“ Where are you going in such a hurry ?” said he. 

“ To his highness.” 

“ His highness ?” 

“Yes, I am unquiet about him. We do not live in times 
when a prince ought to travel without a good escort.” 

Well, if you are unquiet, so am I.” 

“ About what ?” 

“ About his highness also.” 

15—2 


‘ 


228 CHIC OT, THE JESTER. 


‘© Why ?” 

“Do you not know what they say ?” 

“That he has gone to Anjou.” 

“No; that he is dead.” 

‘Bah !” said Monsoreau, with a tone of surprise, not un- 
mixed with joy, “ you told me he was travelling.” 

“Diable! they persuaded me so, but now I have good 
reason to think that if the poor prince be travelling, it is to 
another world.” 

“What gives you these mournful ideas ?” 

“ He entered the Louvre yesterday, did he not ?” 

“Certainly ; I came in with him.” 

“‘ Well! he has never been seen to come out.” 

“ From the Louvre ?” 

eNO!” 

‘“‘ Where is Aurilly ?” 

“ Disappeared.” 

“ But his people ?” 

“ Disappeared.” 

“ You are joking, are you not, M. Chicot ? 

Ask!” 

“Whom ?” 

* The king.” 

“ T cannot question his majesty.” 

“Oh! yes, if you go about it in the right way.” 

“Well,” said the count. ‘I cannot remain in this uncer- 
tainty.” And leaving Chicot, he went to the king’s apartment. 

“Where is the king ?” he asked. ‘I have to render an ac- 
count to him of the execution of some orders he gave me.” 

“ With M. le Duc d’Anjou,” replied the man. 

“With the duke ; then he is not dead ?” 

“T am not so sure of that.” 

M. de Monsoreau was thoroughly bewildered; for if M. 
d’Anjou were in the Louvre, his absence on such a day was 
unaccountable. 

Immediately after the sitting, Quelus, Maugiron, Schomberg, 
and D’Epernon, in spite of the ennui they experienced there, 
were sO anxious to be disagreeable to the duke that they re- 
turned to him. He, on his part, was mortally ennuyé, as well 
as anxious, which, it must be confessed, the conversation of 
these gentlemen was not calculated to remove. 

“Do you know, Quelus,” said Maugiron, “that it is only 


a 


ETEOCLES AND POLYNICES. 229 


now I begin to appreciate our friend Valois ; really he is a great 
politician.” 

“Explain yourself,” said Quelus, who was lounging on a 
chair. 

“While he was afraid of the conspiracy, he kept it quiet; now 
he speaks of it openly, therefore he is no longer afraid of it.” 

“Well 2” 

“If he no longer fears it, he will punish it ; you know Valois, 
he has certainly many good qualities, but clemency is not one 
of them.” 

“ Granted.” 

“Then if he punishes these conspirators there will be a trial, 
and we shall have a fine spectacle.” 

“Unless, which is possible, on account of the rank of the 
accused, they arrange it all quietly.” 

“That would be my advice, certainly ; it is better in family 
affairs.” 

Aurilly glanced at the prince. 

“Ma foi,” said Maugiron, “I know one thing; that in the 
king’s place I would not spare the high heads, which are always 
the most guilty. I would make an example of one or tvo—one, 
at all events.” 

“‘T think it would be well to revive the famous invention of 
sacks.” 

“What was that ?” 

“A royal fancy in the year 1550; they shut up a man in a 
sack, in company with three or four cats, and threw them into the 
water. The minute the cats felt the water they attacked the 
man, and there passed in the sack things which unluckily could 
never be seen.” 

“ Really, Quelus, you are a well of science, and your conversa- 
tion is most interesting.” 

“They could not apply this invention to the chiefs; they have 
the right to be beheaded ; but to the small fry, I mean the 
favourites, squires, and lute-players.” 

“ Gentlemen ” stammered Aurilly. 

“Do not reply to them, Aurilly,” said Francois, “it can- 
not be addressed to me.” As he spoke the king appeared on 
the threshold. ‘The duke rose. “Sire,” cried he, “I appeal 
against the unworthy treatment I meet with from your fol- 
lowers.” 


Henri did not seem to hear, “ Good morning, Quelus,” said 





230 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


he, kissing his favourite on both cheeks ; “good morning, the 
sight of you rejoices my soul, and you, my poor Maugiron, how 
are you >?” ‘ 

“J am terribly ennuyé, sire; when I undertook to guard 
your brother, I thought he was more amusing. Oh! the tire- 
some prince; are you sure he is the son of your father and 
mother ?” ep . 

“Sire! you hear,” cried the prince, “is it your wish that 
your brother should be insulted ?” 

“Silence, monsieur,” said Henri, “I do not like my prisoners 
to complain.” 

“ Prisoner, or not, I am your-——” 

“The title which you are about to invoke,” interrupted the 
king, “is fatal to you. My brother guilty, is doubly guilty.” 

“ But if he is not ?” 

Tie as? 

“ Of what crime ?” 

‘‘ Of having displeased me.” 

“Sire, have our family quarrels need of witnesses ?” 

“You are right, monsieur. My friends, let me speak a little 
to my brother.” 

“JT will take Aurilly,” said Maugiron. 

“Now we are alone, monsieur,” said the king, when they were 
gone. 

“J waited for this moment impatiently.” 

“ And I also; ah, you want my crown, my worthy Eteocles ; 
you made of the League a means, and of the throne an aim, and 
were consecrated in a corner of Paris, to be able to proclaim 
yourself to the Parisians shining with holy oil.” 

* Alas! your majesty will not let me speak.” 

“What for?—to lie, or to tell me things which I know 
already ? But no, you would lie; for to confess what you have 
done, would be to confess that you merit death. You would lie, 
and I would spare you that shame.” 

““My brother, is it your intention to overwhelm me with 
outrages ?” 

“Tf what I say is an outrage, it is I who lie, and I ask no 
better. Speak then, I listen ; tell me you are not disloyal, and 
at the same time unskilful.” 

“T do not know what your majesty means; you speak in 
enigmas.” 

“Then I will explain my words; you have conspired against 


ETEOCLES AND POLYNICES. 231 


me, as formerly you conspired against my brother Charles, only 
then it was by the aid of Henri of Navarre, and now it is 
with the assistance of the Duc de Guise. It is true that 
formerly you crawled like a serpent ; now you wish to spring 
like the lion; after perfidy, open force; after poison, the 
sword.” 

“Poison ! what do you mean ?” cried Francois, with flashing 
eyes. 

“The poison with which you assassinated our brother Charles, 
which you destined for Henry of Navarre, your associate. That 
fatal poison is known; our mother has used it so often, which is 
doubtless the reason why you renounced it on this occasion, and 
preferred rather the part of captain of the League. But look me 
in the face, Fran¢ois, and learn that a man like you shall never 
kill me. A sword! Ah! I should like to see you here in this 
room alone with me, holding a sword. I have conquered you 
in cunning, and in a combat you would be killed. Dream no 
longer of struggling against me in any manner, for from this 
moment I act as king—as master—as despot ; I shall watch you 
everywhere, follow you everywhere, and, at the least suspicion, 
I will throw you to the axe of my executioner. This is what I 
had to say to you in private, and I will order you to be left alone 
to-night to ponder over my words.” 

“Then, sire, for a suspicion, I have fallen into disgrace with 
you P” | 

“Say, under my justice.” 

“But, at least, sire, fix a term to my captivity, that I may 
know what to expect ?” 

“ You will know when you hear your sentence read.” 

“Can I not see my mother ?” 

“What for? There were but three copies in the world of 
the famous hunting-book which killed my poor brother, and 
of the two others, one is in London and the other at Florence. 
Besides, I am not a Nimrod, like my poor brother ; adieu, 
Francois.” 

“Gentlemen,” said the king, opening the door, “the Duc 
d’Anjou has requested to be alone to-night to reflect on an 
answer he has to make to me to-morrow morning. Leave him 
then alone, except occasional visits of precaution. If he be 
troublesome, call me; I have the Bastille ready, and the go- 
vernor, M. Laurent Testu, is the best man in the world to 
conquer ill tempers.” 


232 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Sire,” cried Frangois, trying alast effort, “remember I am 
our——” 
Ae You were also the brother of Charles IX., I think.” 
‘At least restore me to my friends.” 
““T deprive myself of mine to give them to you.” And 
Henri shut the door, while the duke fell in despair into his 
arm-chair, 


CHAPTER LI 


HOW PEOPLE DO NOT ALWAYS LOSE THEIR TIME BY SEARCHING 
EMPTY DRAWERS. 


THE scene which the duke had just had with the king made 
him regard his position as desperate. ‘The minions had not 
allowed him to be ignorant of what had passed, and he had 
heard the people cry, ‘Vive le roi!’ He felt himself aban- 
doned by the other chiefs, who had themselves tosave. In his 
quarrels with his brother Charles he had always had for confi- 
dants, or rather dupes, those two devoted men, Coconnas and 
La Mole, and, for the first time in his life, feeling himself alone 
and isolated, he felt a kind of remorse at having sacrificed them. 
During that time his sister Marguerite loved and consoled him. 
How had he recompensed her ? 

He had recently had near him a brave and valiant heart 
and sword—Bussy, the brave Bussy. And he had: offended 
him to please Monsoreau, who had his secret, with which he 
always threatened him, and which was now known to the 
king. He had therefore quarrelled with Bussy gratuitously, 
and, above all, uselessly, which as a great politician once said, 
““was more than a crime, it was a mistake!’ How he would 
have rejoiced in his present situation, to know that Bussy 
was watching over him; Bussy the loyal, Bussy the universal 
favourite. It would have been probable liberty and certain 
vengeance. 

But as we have said, Bussy, wounded to the heart, kept away 
from the prince, so the prisoner remained fifty feet above the 
ground, with the four favourites in the corridor, without count: 
ing the court full of Swiss. Besides this, one or other of the 
young men entered from time to time, and, without seeming 


TIME NOT LOST BY SEARCHING EMPTY DRAWERS. 233 


even to notice the prince, went round the room, examined the 
doors and windows, looked under the beds and tables, and 
glanced at the curtains and sheets. 

“Ma foi!” said Maugiron, after one of these visits, “TI 
have done; I am not going to look after him any more to- 
night.” 

“Yes,” said D’Epernon, “as long as we guard him, there is 
no need of going to look at him.” 

“‘ And he is not handsome to look at,” said Quelus. 

“Still,” said Schomberg, “I think we had better not relax 
our vigilance, for the devil is cunning.” 

“Yes, but not cunning enough to pass over the bodies of 
four men like us.” 

“ That is true,” said Quelus. 

“Oh!” said Schomberg, “do you think, if he wants to fly, 
he will choose our corridor to come through ? He would make 
a hole in the wall.” 

“ With what ?” 

“Then he has the windows.” 

“Ah! the windows, bravo, Schomberg; would you jump 
forty-five feet ?” 

““T confess that forty-five feet——’ 

“Ves, and he who is lame, and heavy, and timid as ? 

* You,” said Schomberg. 

“ You know I fear nothing but phantoms—that is an affair of 
the nerves.” 

“The last phantom was,” said Quelus, “ that all those whom 
he had killed in duels appeared to him one night.” 

“ However,” said Maugiron, “I have read of wonderful es- 
capes; with sheets, for instance.” 

“Ah! that is more sensible. I saw myself, at Bordeaux, a 
prisoner who escaped by the aid of his sheets.” 

“ You see, then ?” 

“Yes, but he had his leg broken, and his neck, too; his 
sheets were thirty feet too short, and he had to jump, so that 
while his body escaped from prison, his soul escaped from his 
body.” 

“ Besides,” said Quelus, ‘if he escapes, we will follow him, 
and in catching him some mischief might happen to him.” 

So they dismissed the subject. They were perfectly right 
that the duke was not likely to attempt a perilous escape. 
From time to time his pale face was at the window which over- 


’ 





234 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


looked the fosses of the Louvre, beyond which was an open 
space about fifteen feet broad, and then the Seine rolled calm _ 
as a mirror. On the other side rose, like a giant, the tower of 
Nesle. 

He had watched the sunset and the gradual extinction of all 
‘the lights. He had contemplated the beautiful spectacle of 
old Paris, with its roofs gilded by the last rays of the sun, and 
silvered by the first beams of the moon; then little by little he 
was seized with a great terror at seeing -immense clouds roll 
over the sky and announce a storm. Among his other weak- 
nesses, the Duc d’Anjou was afraid of thunder, and he would 
have given anything to have had his guardians with him again, 
even if they insulted him. He threw himself on his bed, but 
found it impossible to sleep. Then he began to swear, and 
break everything near him. It was a family failing, and they 
were accustomed to it at the Louvre. The young men had 
opened the door to see what the noise meant, and seeing that 
it was the duke amusing himself, they had shut it again, which 
redoubled his anger. He had just broken a chair, when a 
crashing of glass was heard at the window, and he felt a sharp 
blow on his thigh. His first idea was that he was wounded by 
some emissary of the king’s. 

“ Ah! I am dead!” he cried, and fell on the carpet. But 
as he fell his hand came in contact with a larger and rougher 
substance than a ball. 

“Oh! a stone,” thought he, and feeling his leg, he found it 
uninjured. He picked up the stone and looked at it, and saw 
that it was wrapped in a piece of paper. ‘Then the duke’s ideas 
began to change. Might not this stone come from a friend as 
well as an enemy. He approached the light, cut the silk which 
tied the paper round the stone and read,— 


_ “Are you tired of keeping your room? Do you love open 
air and liberty? Enter the little room where the Queen of 
Navarre hid your poor friend, M. de la Mole, open the cup- 
board, and, by displacing the lowest bracket, you will find a 
double bottom ; in this there is a silk ladder ; attach it yourself _ 
to the balcony, two vigorous arms will hold it at the bottom. 
A horse, swift as thought, will lead you to a safe place. 


‘A FRIEND.” 


“A friend !” cried'the prince ; “oh! I did not know I hada 


TIME NOT LOST BY SEARCHING EMPTY DRAWERS, 235 


friend. Who is this friend who thinks of me >” And the duke 
ran to the window, but could see no one. 

“Can it be a snare?” thought he; “but first let me see if 
there is a double bottom and a ladder.” 

The duke then, leaving the light where it was for precaution, 
groped his way to the cabinet, which he knew so well. He 
opened it, felt for the bottom shelf, and, to his great joy, found 
what he looked for. As a thief escapes with his booty, the 
duke rushed into the next room with his prey. Ten o’clock 
struck ; the duke thought of his hourly visitors, and hid his 
ladder under a cushion, on which he sat down. Indeed, five 
minutes had not passed before Maugiron appeared in a dressing- 
gown, with a sword in one hand, and a light in the other. As 
he came in one of his friends said to him, “‘ The bear is furious, 
he was breaking everything just now; take care he does not 
devour you, Maugiron.” 

Maugiron made his usual examination; he saw a broken 
window, but thought the duke had done it in his rage. 

“ Maugiron !” cried Schomberg, from outside, “are you 
already eaten that you do not speak? In that case, sigh, at 
least, that we may know and avenge you.” 

The duke trembled with impatience. 

“No, no,” said Maugiron ; “on the contrary, my bear is quite 
conquered,” 

And so saying he went out and locked the door. When the 
key had ceased to turn in the lock the duke murmured,— 

“Take care, gentlemen, or the duke will be too much for you.” 


CHAPTER, LIE 
VENTRE ST. GRIS. 


Lert alone, the duke, knowing he had at least an hour before 
him, drew out his ladder, and carefully examined the fastenings. 
“The ladder is good,” said he, at length, ‘‘and will not break.” 
Then he unrolled it all, and counted thirty-eight rounds of 
fifteen inches each. 

“The length is sufficient,” said he, “there is nothing to fear 
on that point. Ah! but if it were some of those cursed 
minions who sent me to the ladder? If I attach it to the balcony 
they will let me do it, and while I am descending they will cut 


236 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


the cords. But, no; they could not be foolish enough to think 
I would fly without barricading the door, and I should have 
time to fly before they could force it. But what person in the 
world, except my sister herself, could know of a ladder hidden 
in her dressing-room? What friend of mine can It be ?” 

Suddenly an idea struck him, and he cried, ‘ Bussy !” 

Indeed, Bussy, whom so many ladies adored, Bussy was a 
hero to the Queen of Navarre, and his only true friend—was 
it Bussy? Everything made him think so. The duke, of 
course, did not know all his motives for being angry with him, 
for he did not know his love for Diana, and believed him to be 
too noble to think of resentment when his master was a pri- 
soner. He approached the window again, and fancied he could 
see in the fog the indistinct forms of three horses and two men 
by the river. Two men. ‘These must be Bussy and Rémy. 
He then looked through the keyhole, and saw his four guar- 
dians ; two were asleep, and two had inherited Chicot’s chess- 
board and were playing. He extinguished his light. 

Then he opened his window, and looked over the balcony ; 
the gulf below him looked dreadful in the darkness, and he 
drew back. But air and liberty have an attraction so irresistible 
to a prisoner, that Francois, on withdrawing from the window, 
felt as if he were being stifled, and for an instant something like 
disgust of life and indifference to death passed through his mind. 
He fancied he was growing courageous, and, profiting by this 
moment of excitement, he seized the ladder, fixed it to the 
balcony, then barricaded the door as well as he could, and re- 
turned to the window. ‘The darkness was now great, and the 
first growlings of the storm began to make themselves heard ; a 
great cloud with silver fringes extended itself like a recumbent 
elephant from one side to the other of the river. A flash of 
lightning broke the immense cloud for a moment, and the prince 
fancied that he saw below him in the fosse the same figures he 
had imagined before. A horse neighed; there was no more 
doubt—he was waited for. 

He shook the ladder to see if it was firm, then he put his leg 
over the balustrade and placed his foot on the first step. No- 
thing can describe the anguish of the prisoner at this moment, 
placed between a frail silk cord on the one hand and his 
brother’s cruel menaces on the other. But as he stood there 
he felt the ladder stiffened ; some one held it. Was it a friend 
or an enemy? Were they open arms, or armed ones which 


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‘Hm PUT HIS LEG OVER THE BALUSTRADE, AND PLACED HIS FCOT ON 
THE FIRST STEP.” 





VENTRE ST. GRIS. 237 


waited for him? Anirresistible terror seized him ; he still held 
the balcony with his left hand, and made a movement to re- 
mount, when a very slight pull at the ladder came to him like 
a solicitation. He took courage, and tried the second step. 
The ladder was held as firm as a rock, and he found a 
steady support for his foot. He descended rapidly, almost 
gliding down, when all at once, instead of touching the earth, 
which he knew to be near, he felt himself seized in the arms of 
a man who whispered, “ You are saved.” ‘Then he was carried 
along the fosse till they came to the end, when another man 
seized him by the collar and drew him up, and after having 
aided his companion in the same way, they ran to the river, 
where stood the horses. ‘The prince knew he was at the mercy 
of his saviours, so he jumped at once on a horse, and his com- 
panions did the same. ‘The same voice now said, ‘ Quick !” 
And they set off at a gallop. 

“ All goes well at present,” thought the prince, “let us hope 
it will end so. ‘Thanks, my brave Bussy,” said he to his com- 
panion on the right, who was entirely covered with a large cloak. 

“Quick !” replied the other. 

They arrived thus at the great ditch of the Bastille, which they 
crossed on a bridge improvised by the Leaguers the night 
before. ‘The three cavaliers rode towards Charenton, when all 
at once the man on the right entered the forest of Vincennes, 
saying only, “Come.” ‘The prince’s horse neighed, and several 
others answered from the depths of the forest. Francois would 
have stopped if he could, for he feared they were taking him to 
an ambush, but it was too late, and in a few minutes he found 
himself in a small open space, where eight or ten men on horse- 
back were drawn up. 

“Oh! oh!” said the prince, “what does this mean, mon- 
sleur ?” 

“Ventre St. Gris! it means that we are saved.” 

“You! Henri!” cried the duke, stupefied, “you! my libe- 
rator ?” 

“Does that astonish you? Are we not related, Agrippa?” 
continued he, looking round for his companion. 

“Here I am,” said D’Aubigné. 

“Are there two fresh horses, with which we can go a dozen 
leagues without stopping ?” 

“But where are you taking me, my cousin ?” 

“ Where you like, only be quick, for the King of France has 


238 CHICOT, 7HE JESTER. 


more horses than I have, and is rich enough to kill a dozen if 
he wishes to catch us.” 

“ Really, then, I am free to go where I like ?” 

“ Certainly, I wait your orders.” 

“ Well, then, to Angers.” 

“To Angers ; so be it, there you are at home.” 

“ But you ?” 

‘“‘T! when we are in sight of Angers I shall leave you, and 
ride on to Navarre, where my good Margot expects me, and must 
be much ennuyée at my absence.” 

“But no one knew you were here ?” 

“T came to sell three diamonds of my wife’s.” 

* Ah! very well.” 

“And also to know if this League was really going to ruin 
ine 

“ Vou see there is nothing in it.” 

“Thanks to you, no.” 

“ How ! thanks to me 2” 

“Certainly. If, instead of refusing to be chief of the League, 
when you knew it was directed against me, you had accepted, I 
was ruined. Therefore, when I heard that the king had punished 
your refusal with imprisonment, I swore to release you, and I 
have done so.” 

“ Always so simple-tninded,” thought Francois, “really, it is 
easy to deceive him.” 

“Now for Anjou,” thought the king. “Ah! M. de Guise, I 
send you a companion you do not want.” 


CHAPTER Lie 
THE FRIENDS. 


WHILE Paris was in this ferment, Madame de Monsoreau, es- 
corted by her father and two servants, pursued their way to 
Meridor. She began to enjoy her liberty, precious to those who 
have suffered. The azure of the sky, compared to that which 
hung always menacingly over the black towers of the Bastille, 
the trees already green, all appeared to her fresh and young, 
beautiful and new, as if she had really come out of the tomb 
where her father had believed her. He, the old baron, had 


THE FRIENDS. 239 


grown young again. We will not attempt to describe their 
long journey, free from incidents. Several times the baron said 
to Diana,— 

“Do not fear, my daughter.” 

“ Fear what ?” 

“Were you not looking if M. de Monsoreau was following 
us ?” 

“Ves, it was true, I did look,” replied she, with a sigh and 
another glance behind. 

At last, on the eighth day, they reached the chateau of 
Méridor, and were received by Madame de St. Luc and her 
husband. Then began for these four people one of those exist- 
ences of which every man has dreamed in reading Virgil or 
Theocritus. The baron and St. Luc hunted from morning till 
evening ; you might have seen troops of dogs rushing from the 
hills in pursuit of some hare or fox, and startling Diana and 
Jeanne, as they sat side by side on the moss, under the shade 
of the trees. 

“ Recount to me,” said Jeanne, “all that happened to you in 
the tomb, for you were dead to us. See, the hawthorn is shed- 
ding on us its last flowers, and the elders send out their perfume. 
Not a breath in the air, not a human being near us; recount, 
little sister.” 

“What can I say ?” 

“Tell me, are you happy? ‘That beautiful eye often swim- 
ming in tears, the paleness of your cheeks, that mouth which 
tries a smile which it never finishes—Diana, you must have 
many things to tell me.” 

* No, nothing.” 

“Vou are, then, happy with M. de Monsoreau ?” 

Diana shuddered. 

“You see !” said Jeanne. 

“With M. de Monsoreau! Why did you pronounce that 
name? why do you evoke that phantom in the midst of our 
woods, our flowers, our happiness ?” 

“You told me, I think,” said Jeanne, “that M. de Bussy 
showed much interest in you.” 

Diana reddened, even to her round pretty ears. 

“He is a charming creature,” continued Jeanne, kissing 
Diana. 

“Tt is folly,” said Diana; ‘‘ M. de Bussy thinks no more of 
Diana de Méridor.” 


240 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“That is possible; but I believe he pleases Diana de Mon- 
soreau a little.” 

“‘Do not say that.” 

“ Does it displease you ?” 

“T tell you he thinks no more of me; and he does well—oh, 
I was cowardly.” 

“What do you say ?” 

“ Nothing, nothing.” 

“Now, Diana, do not cry, do not accuse yourself. You 
cowardly ! you, my heroine ! you were constrained.” 

“JT believed it; I saw dangers, gulfs under my feet. Now, 
Jeanne, these dangers seem to me chimerical, these gulfs as if 
a child could cross them. I was cowardly, I tell you; oh, I 
had no time to reflect.” 

“You speak in enigmas.” 

“No,” cried Diana, rising, “it was not my fault, it was his. 
The Duc d’Anjou was against him; but when one wishes a 
thing, when one loves, neither prince nor master should keep 
you back. See, Jeanne, if I loved ——” 

“Be calm, dear friend.” 

“T tell you, we were cowardly.” 

“¢We! of whom do you speak? That ‘ we’ is eloquent, my 
dearest Diana.” 

“JT mean my father and I; you did not think anything else, 
did you? My father is a nobleman—he might have spoken to 
the king ; I am proud, and do not fear a man when I hate him. 
But Ze did not love me.” / 

“You lie to yourself! you know the contrary, little hypocrite !” 

“You may believe in love, Jeanne, you, whom M. de St. Luc 
married in spite of the king ; you, whom he carried away from 


Paris ; you, who pay him by your caresses for proscription and 
exile.” 


“And he thinks himself richly repaid.” 

‘But I—reflect a little, do not be egotistical—I, whom that 
fiery young man pretended to love—I, who fixed the regards of 
that invincible Bussy, he who fears no one—I was alone with 
him in the cloister of L’Egyptienne—we were alone; but for 
Gertrude and Rémy, our accomplices, he could have carried 
me off. At that moment I saw him suffering because of me; I 
saw his eyes languishing, his lips pale and parched with fever. 
If he had asked me to die to restore the brightness to his eyes, 
and the freshness to his lips, I should have died. Well, I went 


—_ 





THE FRIENDS. 241 


away, and he never tried to detain me. Wait still. He knew 
that I was leaving Paris, that I was returning to Méridor; he 
knew that M. de Monsoreau—I blush as I tell it—was only my 
husband in name ; he knew that I travelled alone; and along 
the road, dear Jeanne, I kept turning, thinking I heard the 
gallop of his horse behind us. But no, it was only the echo of 
my own. I tell you he does not think of me. I am not worth 
a journey to Anjou while there are so many beautiful women at 
the court of France, whose smiles are worth a hundred confes- 
sions from the provincial, buried at Méridor. Do you under- 
stand now? Am I forgotten, despised——” 

She had not finished when the foliage of the oak rustled, a 
quantity of mortar and moss fell from the old wall, and a man 
threw himself at the feet of Diana, who uttered an affrighted 
cry. 

Jeanne ran away—she recognised him. 

“Here I am !” cried Bussy, kissing the dress of Diana. 

She too recognised him, and, overcome by this unexpected 
happiness, fell unconscious into the arms of him whom she had 
just accused of indifference. 


CHAPTER LIV. 
BUSSY AND DIANA. 


FAINTINGS from love seldom last any length of time, nor are 
they very dangerous. Diana was not long in opening her 
eyes, and finding herself supported by Bussy. 

“Oh !” murmured she, “it was shocking, count, to surprise 
us thus.” 

Bussy expected other words, men are so exacting, but Diana 
said no more, and, disengaging herself gently from his arms, 
ran to her friend, who, seeing her faint, had returned softly, 
and stood a little way off. 

“Ts it thus that you receive me, madame ?” 

“No, M. de Bussy, but——” 

“Oh! no ‘but,’ madame,” sighed Bussy, drawing near again. 

““No, no, not on your knees !” 

“Oh! let me pray to you an instant, thus !” cried the count. 
“T have so longed for this place.” 


16 


242 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Ves, but to come to it, you jumped over the wall. Not 
only is it not suitable for a2 man of your rank, but it is very 
imprudent.” 

“‘ How so ?” 

“Tf you had been seen ?” 

“ Who could have seen me ?” 

“ Our hunters, who, a quarter of an hour ago, passed by this 
wall.” 

“Do not be uneasy, madame, I hide myself too carefully to 
be seen.” 

“ Hidden ! really !” said Jeanne, “tell us how, M. de Bussy.” 

“Firstly, if I did not join you on the road, it was not my 
fault, I took one route and you another. You came by Ram- 
bouillet, and I by Chartres. And then judge if your poor Bussy 
be not in love; I did not dare to join you. It was not in the 
presence of your father and your servants that I wished to meet 
you again, for I did not desire to compromise you, so I made 
the journey stage by stage, devoured by impatience. At last 
you arrived. Thad taken a lodging in the village, and, con- 
cealed behind the window, I saw you pass.” 

“Oh! mon Dieu! are you then at Angers under your own 
name ?” 

“For what do you take me? Iam a travelling merchant; 
look at my costume, it is of a colour much worn among drapers 
and goldsmiths. Ihave not been remarked.” 

“ Bussy, the handsome Bussy, two days in a provincial town 
and not remarked; who would believe that at court?” said 
Jeanne. 

“‘ Continue, count,” said Diana, blushing ; “ how do you come 
here from the town ?” 

“IT have two horses of a chosen race; I leave the village on 
one, stopping to look at all the signs and writings, but when out 
of sight my horse takes to a gallop, which brings him the four 


miles in half an hour. Once in the wood of Méridor I ride to - 


the park wall, but it is very long, for the park is large. Yesterday 
I explored this wall for more than four hours, climbing up here 
and there, hoping to see you. At last, when I was almost in 
despair, I saw you in the evening returning to the house; the 
two great dogs of the baron were jumping round you. When 
you had disappeared, I jumped over, and saw the marks on the 
grass where you had been sitting. I fancied you might have 
adopted this place, which is char: ming, during ‘the heat of the 


BUSSY AND DIANA. 243 


sun, so I broke away some branches that I might know it again, 
and sighing, which hurts me dreadfully——” 

“From want of habit,” said Jeanne. 

“T do not say no, madame; well, then, sighing, I retook my 
way to the town. I was very tired, I had torn my dress in 
climbing trees, but I had seen you, and I was happy.” 

“Tt is an admirable recital,” said Jeanne, “and you have 
surmounted dreadful obstacles ; it is quite heroic ; but in your 
place I would have preserved my doublet, and above all, have 
taken care of my white hands. Look at yours, how frightful 
they are with scratches.” 

“Ves, but then I should not have seen her whom I came 
to see.” 

“On the contrary, I should have seen her better than you 
did.” 

“What would you have done then ?” 

“T would h.ve gone straight to the chateau de Méridor. 
M. le Baron would have pressed me in his arms, Madame de 
Monsoreau would have placed me by her at table, M. de St. Luc 
would have been delighted to see me, and his wife also. It was 
the simplest thing in the world, but lovers never think of what 
is straight before them.” 

Bussy smiled at Diana. ‘Oh, no,” he said, “ that would not 
have done for me.” 

“Then I no longer understand what good manners are.” 

“No,” said Bussy, “I could not go to the castle; M. le 
Baron would watch his daughter.” 

“Good !” said Jeanne, “here is a lesson for me,” and kissing 
Diana on the forehead, she ran away. Diana tried to stop her, 
but Bussy seized her hands, and she let her friend go. They re- 
mained alone. 

“Have I not done well, madame,” said Bussy, “and do you 
not approve ?” 

“TI do not desire to feign,” said Diana, “ besides, it would 
be useless ; you know I approve; but here must stop my indul- 
gence ; in calling for you as I did just now I was mad—I was 
guilty.” 

“Mon Dieu! What do you say ?” 

“Alas ! count, the truth; I have a right to make M. de Mon- 
soreau unhappy, to withhold from him my smiles and my love, 
but I have no right to bestow them on another: for, after all, 
he is my master.” 

16—2 


244 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“‘ Now, you will let me speak, will you not on 

‘ Speak !” : 

“Well! of all that you have just said, you do not find one 
word in your heart.” 

“How !” 

“ Listen patiently ; you have overwhelmed me with sophisms. 
The commonplaces of morality do not apply here ; this man is 
your master, you say, but did you choose him? No; fate im- 
posed him on you, and you submitted. Now, do you mean to 
suffer all your life the consequences of this odious constraint ? I 
will deliver you from it.” 

Diana tried to speak, but Bussy stopped her. 

“Oh! I know what you are going to say; that if I provoke 
M. de Monsoreau and kill him, you will see me no more. So 
be it; I may die of grief, but you will live free and happy, and 
you may render happy some gallant man, who in his joy will 
sometimes bless my name, and cry, ‘Thanks, Bussy, thanks, for 
having delivered us from that dreadful Monsoreau ; and you, 
yourself, Diana, who will not dare to thank me while living, will 
thank me dead.” 

Diana seized his hand. 

“You have not yet implored me, Bussy ; you begin with 
menaces.” 

“Menace you! oh! could I have such an intention, I, who 
love you so ardently, Diana. I know you love me ; do not deny 
it, I know it, for you have avowed it. Here, on my knees before 
you, my hand on my heart, which has never lied, either from 
interest or from fear, I say to you, Diana, I love you, for my 
whole life. Diana, I swear to you that if I die for you, it will 
be in adoring you. If you still say to me, ‘go,’ I will go with- 
out a sigh, or complaint, from this place where I am so happy, 
and I should say, ‘this woman does not love me, and never will 
love me.’ Then I should go away, and you would see me no 
more ; but as my devotion for you is great, my desire to see you 
happy would survive the certainty that I could never be happy 
myself.” 

Bussy said this with so much emotion, and, at the same time 
firmness, that Diana felt sure that he would do all he said, and 
she cried,— 

“Thanks, count, for vov take from me all remorse by your 
threats.” 


Saying these words, she gave him her hand, which he kissed 


BUSSY AND DIANA. 245 


passionately. Then they heard the light steps of Jeanne, ac” 
companied by a warning cough. Instinctively the clasped hands 
parted. Jeanne saw it. 

“Pardon, my good friends, for disturbing you,” said she, 
“but we must go in if we do not wish to be sent for. M. le 
Comte, regain, if you please, your excellent horse, and let us go 
to the house. See what you lose by your obstinacy, M. de 
Bussy, a dinner at the chateau, which is not to be despised by a 
man who has had a long ride, and has been climbing trees, with- 
out counting all the amusement we could have had, or the 
glances that might have passed. Come, Diana, come away.” 

Bussy looked at the two friends witha smile. Diana held out 
her hand to him. 

“Ts that all?” said he ; “have you nothing to say ?” 

“ Till to-morrow,” replied she. 

“ Only to-morrow.” 

“To-morrow, and always.” 

Bussy uttered a joyful exclamation, pressed his lips to her 
hand, and ran off. Diana watched him till he was out of 
sight. 

“ Now !” said Jeanne, when he had disappeared, “ will you 
talk to me a little ?” 

Ohi! yes.’ 

“ Well! to-morrow I shall go to the chase with St. Luc and 
your father.” 

‘“‘What, you will leave me alone at the chateau !” 

“ Listen, dear friend ; I also have my principles, and there are 
certain things that I cannot consent to do.” 

“Oh, Jeanne !” cried Diana, growing pale, “can you say such 
things to me ?” 

“ Yes, I cannot continue thus.” 

“T thought you loved me, Jeanne. What cannot you con- 
tinue ?” 

“Continue to prevent two poor lovers from talking to each 
other at their ease.” Diana seized in her arms the laughing 
young woman. 

“Listen !” said Jeanne, “there are the hunters calling us, and 
poor St. Luc is impatient.” 


246 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


CHAPTER LV. 


HOW BUSSY WAS OFFERED THREE HUNDRED PISTOLES FOR 
HIS HORSE, AND PARTED WITH HIM FOR NOTHING. 


Tue next day, Bussy left Angers before the most wakeful bour- 
geois had had their breakfast. He flew along the road, and 
Diana, mounted on a terrace in front of the castle, saw him 
coming, and went to meet him. The sun had scarcely risen 
over the great oaks, and the grass was still wet with dew, when 
she heard from afar, as she went along, the horn of St. Luc, 
which Jeanne incited him to sound. She arrived at the meeting- 
place just as Bussy appeared on the wall. The day passed like 
an hour. What had they to say? That they loved each other. 
What had they to wish for? They were together. 

“‘Diana,” said Bussy at length, “it seems to me as though 
my life had begun only to-day. You have shown me what it is 
to live.” 

“ And I,” replied she, ‘‘ who not long ago would have willingly 
thrown myself into the arms of death, would now tremble to die 
and lose your love. But why do you not come to the castle P 
My father would be glad to see you, and M. de St. Luc is your 
friend.” 

“Alas, Diana, if I came once, I should be always there ; all 
the province would know it, and if it came to the ears of that 
ogre, your husband, he woulc hasten here. You forbid me to 
deliver you from him——” 

Oh syesi” 

“Well, then, for the safety of our happiness, we must guard 
our secret. Madame de St. Luc knows it, and her husband 
soon will. I have written him a line this morning, asking him 
for an interview at Angers, and when he comes I will make him 
promise never to breathe a word of this. It is the more im- 
portant, dear Diana, as doubtless they are seeking me every- 
where. Things looked grave when I left Paris.” 

“You are right ; and then my father is so scrupulous that, in 
spite of his love for me, he is capable of denouncing me to M. 
de Monsoreau.” 


_ “Let us hide ourselves well, then; I fear some evil spirit, 
jealous of our happiness.” 


BUSSY PARTS WITH HIS HORSE FOR NOTHING. 24% 


“Say adieu to me, then ; and do not ride so fast—your horse 
frightens me.” 

“Fear nothing ; he knows the way, and is the gentlest and 
safest horse I ever rode. When I return to the city, buried 
in sweet thoughts, he takes the way without my touching the 
bridle.” 

At last the sound of the returning chase was heard, the horns 
playing an air agreed upon with Jeanne, and Bussy left. As he 
approached the city, he remarked that the time was approaching 
when the gates of the city would be closed. He was preparing 
to ride on quickly, when he heard behind him the gallop of 
horses. For a lover who wishes to remain concealed, as for 
a robber, everything seems a menace. Bussy asked himself 
whether he should ride on or draw up and let them pass, but 
their course was so rapid that they were up to him in a moment. 
There were two. 

“ Here is the city,” said one, with a Gascon accent; “three 
hundred more blows with the whip, and one hundred with the 
spur; courage and vigour !” 

“The beast has no more breath—he shivers and totters; he 
will not go on; and yet I would give a hundred horses to be in 
my city before nightfall.” 

“‘ It is some Angers man out late,” thought Bussy. “ But look, 
the horse is falling ; take care, monsieur,” cried he ; “ quit your 
horse—he is about to fall.” 

Indeed, as he spoke the animal fell heavily on his side, shook 
his legs convulsively, then suddenly his breath stopped, his eyes 
grew dim, and he was dead. 

“Monsieur !” cried the cavalier to Bussy, “three hundred 
pistoles for your horse !” 

“ Ah, mon Dieu !” cried Bussy, drawing near. 

“Do you hear me, monsieur ? I am in haste.” 

“Ah! my prince, take it for nothing,” cried Bussy, who had 
recognised the Duc d’Anjou. 

At the same moment they heard the click of a pistol, which 
was cocked by the duke’s companion. 

“Stop, M. d’Aubigné,” cried the duke, “it is Bussy, I 
believe.” 

“Oh! yes, my prince, it is I. But what, in Heaven’s name 
are you doing, killing horses on the road at this hour 2” 

“Ah! is it M. de Bussy?” said D’Aubigné, “then you do 


248 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


not want me any more. Permit me to return to him who sent 
me ?” 

“ Not without receiving my sincere thanks and the promise 
of a lasting friendship.” 

“T accept it, monseigneur, and will recall your words to you 
some day.” 

““M. D’Aubigné! I am in the clouds,” murmured Bussy. 

“Did you not know? As you are here, did you not expect 
me?” said the prince, with an air of suspicion which did not 
escape Bussy, who began to reflect that his secret residence in 
Anjou might seem very strange to the prince. 

“T did better than expect you,” said Bussy, ‘and as you wish 
to enter the town before the gates are closed, jump into the 
saddle, monseigneur.” 

The prince accepted, and Bussy mounted behind him, asking 
himself if this prince, dressed in black, were not the evil spirit 
sent already to disturb his happiness. 

‘Where do we go now, monseigneur?” said he, as they entered 
the city. 

“To the castle. Let them hoist my banner and convoke the 
nobility of the district.” 

“ Nothing more easy,” said Bussy, full of surprise, but willing 
to be docile. The news was soon spread through the city that 
the duke had arrived, and a crowd soon collected. 

“Gentlemen !” cried the duke, “I have come to throw my- 
self into my good city of Angers. At Paris the most terrible 
dangers have menaced my life—I had lost even my liberty. I 
succeeded in escaping, thanks to some good friends, and now I - 
am here I feel my tranquillity and my life assured.” 

The people cried, “ Long live our seigneur.” 

“Now let me sup,” said the prince, “I have had nothing 
since the morning.” 

The city was illuminated, guns were fired, the bells of the 


cathedral were rung, and the wind carried to Méridor the noisy 
joy of the good Angevins. 


THE DIPLOMACY OF THE DUC DANJOU. 249 


CHAPTER LVI. 
THE DIPLOMACY OF THE DUC D’ANJOU,. 


WHEN the duke and Bussy were left alone, the duke said, “ Let 
us talk.” 

Francois, who was very quick, had perceived that Bussy had 
made more advances to him than usual, therefore he judged 
that he was in some embarrassing situation, and that he might, 
by alittle address, get an advantage over him. But Bussy had 
had time to prepare himself, and he was quite ready. 

“Ves, let us talk, monseigneur,” replied he. 

“The last day I saw you, my poor Bussy, you were very 
ill.” 

“Tt is true, monseigneur, I was very ill, and it was almost a 
miracle that saved me.” : 

“There was near you a doctor very devoted to you, for he 
growled at every one who approached you.” 

“ True, prince, Rémy loves me.” 

“ He kept you rigorously to your bed, did he not °” 

“ At which I was in a great rage, as your highness might have 
Seen.” 

“ But, if that were the case, why did you not send the doctor 
to the devil, and come out with me as I begged you to do? 
But as it was a grave affair, you were afraid to compromise 
yourself.” 

“Did you say I was afraid ?” 

‘““T did say so.” 

“ Well, then, it was a lie !” said Bussy, jumping up from his 
chair; ‘you lied to yourself, monseigneur, for you do not be- 
lieve a single word of what you say. There are twenty scars 
on my body, which prove the contrary. I never knew fear, 
and, ma foi, I know people who cannot say the same.” 

“You have always unanswerable arguments, M. de Bussy,” 
cried the duke, turning very pale; “when you are accused, 
you cry louder than your accuser, and then you think you are 
right.” 

“Qh ! I am not always right, I know well, but I know on 
what occasions I am wrong.” 

“And what are they P” 


250 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 
‘¢ When I serve ungrateful people.” ‘ 
“Really, monsieur, I think you forget yourself,” said the 

duke, with some dignity. Bussy moved towards the door, but 

the prince stopped him. | ee 

“Do you deny, monsieur,” said he, “ that after refusing to 
go out with me, you went out immediately after ?” 

“J deny nothing, monseigneur, but I will not be forced to 
confession.” 

“Tell me why you would not go out with me.” 

“T had business.” 

* At home ?” 

“Or elsewhere.” 

“TI thought that when a gentleman was in the service of a 
prince, his principal business was that of the prince.” 

“‘And who does your business generally, monseigneur, if 
not IP” 

“T do not say no; generally I find you faithful and devoted, 
and, I will say more, I excuse your bad humour.” 

** You are very good.” 

“Yes, for you had some reason to be angry.” 

“Ah! you confess it.” 

“Yes, I promised you the disgrace of M. de Monsoreau. It 
seems you hate him very much.” . 

“T! not at all. I find him very ugly, and should have liked 
him away from court, not to have had tolook athim, It seems, 
however, that you admire him, and there is no accounting for 
tastes.” “ 

“Well, then, as that was your sole excuse, you were doubly 
wrong to refuse to accompany me, and then to go out after, and 
commit follies,” 

“Follies ! what did I do?” 

“Doubtless, you do not like MM. d’Epernon and Schomberg, 
neither do I, but one must have some prudence. Kill them, 
and I should be grateful to you, but do not exasperate 
them.” 

“What did I do to them ?” 

“Why, you had D’Epernon stoned.” 

&¢ if 2 

“Yes, so that his clothes were torn to pieces.” 

“Good ! and what about M. Schomberg ?” 

“You will not deny that you had him dyed indigo colour? 
When I saw him three hours after, he was still bright blue. 





THE DIPLOMACY OF THE DUE DAN/JOU. 251 


Do you call that a joke?” And the prince laughed in spite of 
himself, and Bussy joined him. 

“Then,” said he, “they think it was I who played them these 
tricks !” 

“ Perhaps it was I.” 

“ And you have the conscience to reproach a ran who had 
such fine ideas.” 

“Well, I pardon you. But I have another complaint to 
make. What did you do to deliver me from my unlucky situa- 
tion ?” 

“Vou see, I came to Anjou.” 

“Tt seems to me that you would have been more useful 
nearer.” 

“ Ah! there we differ; I preferred coming to Anjou.” 

‘Your caprice is a bad reason.” 

“But, if 1 came to gather your partisans ?” 

“Ah! that is different. What have you done?” 

“J will explain that to you to-morrow ; at present I must 
leave you.” 

Why :” 

“‘T have to see an important person.’ 

“Qh, very well; but be prudent.” 

“ Prudent ! are we not the strongest here ?” 

“ Never mind ; risk nothing. Have you done much?” 

‘J have only been here two days.” 

“But you keep yourself concealed, I hope.” 

“T should think so. Look at my dress; am I in the habit 
of wearing cinnamon-coloured clothes ?” 

“ And where are you lodging ?” 

“ Ah! I hope you will appreciate my devotion ; in a tumble- 
down old house, near the ramparts. But you, my prince, how 
did you get out of the Louvre? How was it that I found you 
on the road, with M. d’Aubigné for a companion ?” 

“ Because I have friends.” 

“Vou! friends !” 

“Yes, friends that you do not know.” 

“Well, and who are they ?” 

“The King of Navarre and D’Aubigné, whom you saw.” 

“The King of Navarre! Ah! true, did you not conspire 
together ?” 

““T never conspired, M. de Bussy.” 

* No; ask poor La Mole and Coconnas.” 


252 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Ta Mole,” said the prince, gloomily, “died for another 
crime than the one alleged against him.” 

“Well, never mind him. How the devil did you get out of 
the Louvre ?” 

“Through the window.” 

“Which window ?” 

“That of my bed-room.” 

“Then you knew of the rope-ladder ?” 

“What rope-ladder ?” 

“In the cupboard.” 

“Ah! it seems you knew it,” cried the prince, turning pale. 

“Oh! your highness knows I have sometimes had the hap- 
piness of entering that room.” 

“In the time of my sister Margot. Then you came in by 
the window ?” 

“As you came out. All that astonishes me is, that you knew 
of the ladder.” 

“Tt was not I who found it.” 

Who then” 

“T was told of it.” 

“ By whom ?” 

“By the King of Navarre.” 

“Ah! the King of Navarre knew of it; I should not have 
thought so. However, now you are here safe and sound, we: 
will put Anjou in flames, and Béarn and Angoumois will catch 
the light, so we shall have a fine blaze.” 4 

“But did you not speak of a rendezvous 2” 

“Tt is true; the interest of the conversation was making me 
forget. Adieu, monseigneur.” 

“Do you take your horse ?” 

“Tf it will be useful to you, monseigneur, you may keep it, I 
have another.” 

“Well! I accept ; we will settle that later.” 

The duke gave Bussy his hand, and they separated. 


THE IDEAS OF THE DUC D’ANJOU. 253 


CHAPTER LVII. 
THE IDEAS OF THE DUC D’ANJOU. 


Bussy returned home, but instead of St. Luc, whom he ex- 
pected, he found only a letter fixing their meeting for the next 
day. About six in the morning St. Luc started, and rode straight 
to Bussy’s house. 

“ Accept the hospitality of my poor hut, St. Luc,” said Bussy, 
“T am encamped here.” 

“‘ Yes, like a conqueror on the field of battle.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

““T mean, dear Bussy, that my wife has no secrets from me, 
and has told me all. Receive my compliments, but, since you 
have sent for me, permit me to give you a piece of advice.” 

Well,” 

“ Get rid as soon as possible of that abominable Monsoreau ; 
no one at the court knows of your love for his wife, so when 
you marry the widow, no one will say you killed him on pur- 
pose.” 

“ There is but one obstacle to this project, which presented 
itself to my mind, as to yours.” 

“* What Is it ?” 

“ That I have sworn to Diana to respect the life of her hus- 
band, as long as he does not attack me.” 

** You were very wrong.” 

“Why so?” 

“ Because if you do not take the initiative, he will discover 
you, and will kill you.” 

“T cannot break my oath to Diana. Besides, he who is 
now a monster in all eyes, would be thought an angel in his 
tomb.” 

“Therefore I do not advise you to kill him yourself.” 

“Oh, St. Luc, no assassins.” 

‘““Who spoke of assassins ?” 

“Of what then ?” 

‘Nothing ; an idea passed through my mind ; I will tell you 
what it was at another time. I do not love this Monsoreau 
much more than you, although I have not the same reason to 
detest him, so let us speak of the wife instead of the husband.” 


254 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


Bussy smiled. “ You are a capital companion, St. Luc,” said 
he, “and you may count on my friendship. Now my friend- 
ship consists of three things, my purse, my sword, and my life. 
Now, what about Diana ?” 

“ “JT wished to ask if you were not coming to Meridor.” 

“My dear friend, I thank you, but you know my scruples.” 

“JT know all. At Méridor you fear to meet Monsoreau, 
although he is eighty leagues off; fear to have to shake his 
hand, and it is hard to shake the hand of the man you wish to 
strangle ; you fear to see him embrace Diana, and it is hard to 
see that of the woman you love.’ 

“Ah! how well you understand !” cried Bussy, with rage ; 
“but, my dear friend, did you not hear last night the noise of 
bells and guns ?” 

“Ves; and we wondered what it meant.” 

“Tt meant that the Duc d’Anjou arrived last night.” 

St. Luc jumped up. “The duke here! We heard he was 
imprisoned at the Louvre.” 

“That is just why he is now at Angers. He managed to 
escape through a window, and came here.” 

Well pr” 

“Well, here is an excellent opportunity to revenge yourself 
for the king’s persecutions. ‘The prince has already a party, he 
will soon have troops, and we shall have something like a little 
civil war.” 

“Oh! oh!” 

“And I reckoned on you to help us.” ‘ 

“ Against the king ?” said St. Luc, with sudden coldness. 

“Not precisely against the king, but against those who fight 
against us.” 

“ My dear Bussy, I came here for country air, not to fight 
against his majesty.” 

‘But let me present you to monseigneur.” 

“Useless, my dear Bussy, I do not like Angers.” 

“My dear St. Luc, you will do me a great service by con- 
senting ; the duke asked me what I came here for, and, not 
being able to tell because of his own passion for Diana, I said 
that I had come to draw to his cause all the gentlemen in the 
Canton; I even told him I had a rendezvous with one this 
morning.” 

“Well! tell him you have seen the gentleman, and that he 
asks six months to consider. Listen, I will always help you to 


THE IDEAS OF THE DUC D’ANJOU. 235 


defend Diana, you shall help me to defend my wife. We will 
make a treaty for love, but not for politics.” 

“T see, I must yield to you, St. Luc, for you have the ad- 
vantage over me. I want you, and you do not want me.” 

“ On the contrary, it is I who claim your protection.” 

“ How so ?” 

“Suppose the rebels besiege and sack Meéridor.” 

The two friends laughed ; then, as the duke had sent to in- 
quire for Bussy, they separated with renewed promises of friend- 
ship, and charmed with each other. 

Bussy went to the ducal palace, where already all the nobility 
of the provinces were arriving. He hastened to arrange an 
official reception, a repast and speeches, and having thus cut 
out some hours’ occupation for the prince, mounted his other 
horse, and galloped to Méridor. The duke made some good 
speeches, and produced a great effect, giving himself out for a 
prince persecuted by the king on account of the love of the 
Parisians for him. When Bussy returned, it was four in the 
afternoon ; he dismounted, and presented himself to the duke 
all covered with dust. 

“ Ah! my brave Bussy, you have been at work ?” 

“ You see, monseigneur.” 

‘You are very hot.” 

“ T have ridden fast.” 

“Take care not to get ill again.” 

“ There is no danger.” 

“Whence do you come ?” 

“From the environs. Is your highness content? have you 
had a numerous assemblage ?” 

“Yes, I am pretty well satisfied, but I missed some one.” 

“Who ?” 

“ Vour protégé, the Baron de Méridor.” 

Bussy changed colour. 

“ And yet we must not neglect him,” continued the duke, 
“he is influential here.” 

* You think so?” 

“T am sure of it. He was the correspondent of the League 
at Angers, chosen by M. de Guise, and the Guises choose their 
men well. He must come, Bussy.” 

“ But if he does not come ?” 

“T will go to him.” 

To Meéridor °” 


256 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Why not?” i ‘ 

“ Oh, why not, certainly,” cried Bussy, with flashing eyes, ‘‘a 
prince may do anything.” _ 

“ Then you think he is still angry with me?” 

“‘ How should I know ?” 

“You have not seen him ?” 

“No,” 

‘As one of the great men of the province, I thought 

“T was not sufficiently fortunate in the former promises I 
made him to be in a hurry to present myself to him.” 

“Has he not attained his object ?” 

“* How so ?” 

“He wanted his daughter to marry the count, and she has 
done so.” 

Bussy turned his back on the duke, who, at the same moment, 
moved towards another gentleman who entered the room. Bussy 
began to reflect on what the duke’s projects were with regard to 
the baron—whether they were purely political, or whether he 
was still seeking to approach Diana; but he imagined that, em- 
broiled with his brother, banished from the Louvre, and the 
chief of a provincial insurrection, he had sufficiently grave in- 
terests at stake to outweigh his love fancies. He passed the 
night banqueting with the duke and the Angevin gentlemen, 
then in dancing with the Angevin ladies. It is needless to say 
that he was the admiration of the latter, and the hatred of the 
husbands, several of whom looked at him in a way which did 
not please him, so that, curling his moustachios, he invited three 
or four of them to take a walk with him by moonlight ; but his 
reputation had preceded him, and they all declined. 

At the door Bussy found a laughing face waiting for him, 
which he believed to be eighty leagues off. 

“Ah!” cried he joyfully, “it is you, Rémy.” 

‘Yes, monsieur.” 

“‘T was going to write to you to join me.” 

“ Really !” 

“On my word.” 

“That is capital ; I was afraid you would scold me.” 

“ For what ?” 

‘For coming without leave. But I heard that Monsieur le 
Duc d’Anjou had escaped, and had fled here. I knew you 
were here also, and I thought there might be civil war, and 
many holes made in skins, so I came.” 


”? 





THE IDEAS OF THE DUC D'ANJOU. 257 


“Vou did well, Rémy ; I wanted you.” 

“ How is Gertrude, monsieur ?” 

“J will ask Diana the first time I see her.” 

And, in return, every time I see her I will ask for news of 
Madame de Monsoreau.” 

“You are charming.” 

Meanwhile they had reached Bussy’s lodging. 

“ Here is my palace; you must lodge as you can.” 

“Tt will not be difficult; I could sleep standing, I am so 
tired.” 

Bussy rose early the next morning, and went to the ducal 
palace, leaving word for Rémy to follow him. The duke had 
prepared a list of important things to be done: firstly, a walk 
round the walls to examine the fortifications ; secondly, a review 
of the inhabitants and their arms; thirdly, a visit to the arsenal ; 
fourthly, correspondence. 

“‘ Ah!” cried the duke, “you already !” 

“Ma foi! yes, monseigneur; I could not sleep, your high- 
ness’s interests were so much on my mind. What shall we do 
this morning? Shall we hunt?” 

“ How !” said the duke, “‘ you pretend to have been thinking 
all night of my interests, and the result of so much meditation 1s 
to propose to me a hunt !” 

“ True,” said Bussy; “ besides, we have no hounds.” 

“ And no chief huntsman.” 

«Ah, ma foi! the chase would be more agreeable without 
him.” 

“ Ah, I am not like you—I want him; he would have been 
very useful to us here.” 

“How so?” 

“ He has property here.” 

eerie \ 

“ He or his wife.” 

Bussy bit his lips. 

“ Méridor is only three leagues off, you know that,” continued 
the duke, ‘“‘ you, who brought the old baron to me.” 

“Dame! I brought him because he hung on to my cloak, 
However, my protection did not do him much good.” 

“Listen,” said the duke, “I have an idea.” 

“ Diable!” said Bussy, who was always suspicious of the duke’s 
ideas. 


| 


258 CHICOT, THE JESTER, 


“Yes; it is that, if Monsoreau had the advantage over you 


at first, you shall have it now.” 

“What do you mean ?” 

“Tt is very simple; you know me, Bussy re 

“TJ have that misfortune.” sles 

“Think you I am the man to submit to an affront with im- 
punity ?” 

“ Explain yourself, monseigneur.” eid 

“Well, he stole the young girl I loved to make her his wife ; 
now I will steal his wife !” 

Bussy tried to smile, but made a grimace instead. “Steal 
his wife !” stammered he. 

“Nothing more easy, she is here, and you told me she 
hated her husband; therefore, without too much vanity, I may 
flatter myself she will give me the preference, if I promise 
her % 

‘‘ What, monseigneur ?” 

“ To get rid of her husband for her.” 

“You will do that ?” 

“ You shall see. Meanwhile I will pay a visit to Méridor.” 

“ You will dare ?” 

‘Why not >” 

“You will present yourself before the old baron, whom you 
abandoned after promising me——” 

“‘T have an excellent excuse to give him.” 

‘Where the devil will you find it ?” 

“Oh! I will say to him, I did not break this marriage, be- 
cause Monsoreau, who knew that you were one of the prin- 
ae agents to the League, threatened to denounce you to the 

ing.” 

“Has your highness invented that ?” 

* Not entirely.” 

“ Then I understand.” 

“Ves, I shall make him believe that by marrying his daughter 
I saved his life.” 

“Tt is superb.” 

“Well! order the horses, and we will go to Méridor.” 

“Immediately, monseigneur.” Bussy then went to the door, 
but turned back and said, ‘“ How many horses will your high- 
ness have ?” 

“Oh, four or five, what you like.” 

“Tf you leave it to me, I shall take a hundred,” 


. 








THE IDEAS OF THE DUC D’ANJOU. 259 


What for ?” cried the prince, surprised. 

“To have at least twenty-five I can rely on in case of 
attack.” 

“ Attack !” 

“Ves, I have heard that there are thick woods in that neigh- 
bourhood, and it would not surprise me if we fell into some 
ambush.” 

“¢ Ah, do you think so ?” 

“Monseigneur knows that true courage does not exclude 
prudence ; I will order one hundred and fifty.” And he moved 
towards the door. 

“A moment,” said the prince. ‘ Do you think I am in safety 
at Angers ?” 

“Why, the town is not very strong, but well defended——’” 

“Ves, but it may be badly defended ; however brave you are, 
you can be but in one place at a time.” 

“rue.” 

“Then if Iam not in safety here—and I am not if Bussy 
doubts 3 

“T did not say I doubted.” 

“Tf I am not safe, I had better make myself so. I will go 
to the castle and entrench myself.” 

“You are right, monseigneur.” 

« And then another idea.” 

“The morning is fruitful.” 

“T will make the Méridors come here.” 

“ Monseigneur, you are grand to-day. Now let us visit the 
castle.” 

Bussy went out while the prince was getting ready, and 
found Rémy waiting. He wrote hastily a little note, picked a 
bunch of roses from the conservatory, rolled the note round 
the stems, went to the stable, brought out his horse, and, put- 
ting Rémy on it, and giving him the bouquet, led him out of 
the city. 

“ Now,” said he, “let Roland go; at the end of this road 
you will find the forest, in the forest a park, round the park a 
wall, and at that part of the wall where Roland stops, throw over 
this bouquet.” 

“He whom you expect does not come,” said the note, “ be- 
cause he who was not expected has come, and is more menacing 
than ever, for he loves still. ‘Take with the lips and the heart 
all that is invisible to the eyes in this paper.” 





17--2 


260 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


In half an hour Rémy reached his destination, carried by 
his horse, and threw over the bouquet; a little cry from the 
other side told him it had been received. Then Rémy returned, 
in spite of his horse, which seemed much put out at losing its 
accustomed repast on the acorns. Rémy joined Bussy as he 
was exploring a cave with the prince. 

“Well,” said he to his messenger, “what did you hear or 
see ?” 

“A wall, a cry, seven leagues,” replied Rémy, laconically. 


CHAPTER LVIII. 
A FLIGHT OF ANGEVINS. 


Bussy contrived to occupy the duke so well with his prepara- 
tions for war during two days, that he found no time to think 
of Méridor, and from time to time, under pretext of examining 
the outer fortifications, jumped on Roland, and arrived at a 
certain wall, which he got over all the more quickly because 
each time he made some stone fall, and was, in fact, gradually 
making a breach. 

Towards the end of the third day, as an enormous convoy of 
provisions was entering the city, the produce of a tax levied by 
the duke on his good Angevins, as M. d’Anjou, to make himself 
popular, was tasting the black bread and salt fish of the soldiers, 
they heard a great noise at one of the gates of the city, where a 
man, mounted on a white horse, had presented himself. Now 
Bussy had had himself named Captain-General of Anjou, and 
had established the most severe discipline in Angers; no one could 
go out of or enter the town without a password ; all which had. 
no other aim than to prevent the duke from sending a mes- 
senger to Méridor without his knowledge. 

The man on the white horse had arrived at a furious gallop, 
and had attempted to enter, but had been stopped. 

“T am Antragues,” said he, “and desire to speak to the Duc 
d’Anjou.” 

“We do not know Antragues,” they replied, “ but as for see- 


ing the duke, you shall be satisfied, for we shall arrest you, and 
conduct you to him,” 


A FLIGHT OF ANGEVINS. 261 


“You are a nice fellow, truly, to talk of arresting Charles 
Balzac d’Antragues, Baron de Cuneo, and Comte de Graville.” 

“ We will do so, however,” replied the bourgeois, who had 
twenty men behind him. 

“Wait a little, my good friends. You do not know the 
Parisians. Well, I will show you a specimen of what they can 
GO.” 

“Tet us arrest him !” cried the furious militia. 

“ Softly, my little lambs of Anjou; it is I who will have that 
pleasure.” 

“What does he say >” asked the bourgeois. 

“ He says that his horse has only gone ten leagues, and will 
ride over you all.” And drawing his sword and swinging it 
furiously round, he cut off in his passage the blades of the 
nearest halberts, and in less than ten minutes fifteen or twenty 
of them were changed into broom-handles. 

“ Ah! this is very amusing!” cried he, laughing, and as he 
spoke stunning one of the bourgeois with a blow on the head 
with the flat of his sword. However, as more and more bour- 
geois crowded to the attack, and Antragues began to feel tired, 
he said, “Well, you are as brave as lions ; I will bear witness to 
it ; but, you see, you have nothing left but the handles of your 
halberts, and you do not know how to load your muskets. I 
had resolved to enter the city, but I did not know it was guarded 
by an army of Czsars. I renounce my victory over you. Good- 
evening, I am going away ; only tell the prince that I came here 
expressly to see him.” 

However, the captain had managed to communicate the fire 
to the match of his musket, but just as he was raising it to his 
shoulder, Antragues gave him such a furious blow upon the 
fingers that he dropped it. 

“Kill him ! kill him!” cried several voices, “do not let him 
escape !” 

“Ah!” said Antragues, “just now you would not let me 
come in, now you will not let me go out. Take care, that will 
change my tactics, and instead of the flat of my sword, I will 
use the point—instead of cutting the halberts, I will cut the 
wrists. Now, will you let me go ?” 

“No, no, he is tired, kill him !” 

“Well, then, take care of your hands !” 

Scarcely had he spoken when another cavalier appeared, riding 
furiously also, and who cried out as he approached : 


262 CHICOT, THE JESTER: 


“ Antragues, what are you doing among all these bour- 
geols ?” 

“ Livarot !” cried Antragues. ‘“ Mon Dieu, you are welcome; 
Montjoie and St. Denis, to the rescue !” 

‘“‘T heard four hours ago that you were before me, and I have 
been trying to catch you. But what is the matter ; do they 
want to massacre you P” 

“Ves, they will neither let me in nor out.” 

“Gentlemen !” said Livarot, “will you please to step either 
to the right or left, and let us pass.” 

“They insult us ! kill them !” cried the people. ; 

“Oh! this is Angers’ manners!” said Livarot, drawing his 
sword. 

“Ves, you see; unluckily, there are so many of them.” 

“Tf there were but three of us !” 

“And here is Ribeirac coming.” 

“Do you hear him ?” 

“T see him. Here, Ribeirac !” 

“ Are you fighting ?” cried Ribeirac. 

**Good morning, Livarot ; good morning, Antragues.” 

“‘ Let us charge them,” said Antragues. 

The bourgeois looked in stupefaction at this reinforcement 
that was about to join the attacking party. 

“They are a regiment,” said the captain of the militia. 

“This is only the advanced guard,” cried another. 

‘We are fathers of families, and our lives belong to, our chil- 
dren,” said others, and they all tried to fly, fighting with each 
other to get out of the way. 

At this stage of the affair Bussy and the prince arrived, followed 
by twenty cavaliers, to ascertain the cause of the tumult. They 
were told that it was three incarnate devils from Paris who were 
making all the disturbance. 

“Three men, Bussy ; see who they are.” 

Bussy raised himself in his stirrups, and his quick eye soon 
recognised Livarot. 

“Mort de ma vie, monseigneur,” cried he, “they are our 
friends from Paris who are besieging us.” 

“No!” cried Livarot, “on the contrary, it is these people 
who are killing us.” 

‘Down with your arms, knaves,” cried the duke, “these are 
friends,” 

“Friends !” cried the bourgeois, “ then they should have had 


ROLAND. 263 


the password ; for we have been treating them like Pagans, and 
they us like Turks.” 

Livarot, Antragues, and Ribeirac advanced in triumph to kiss 
the duke’s hand. 

‘‘ Monseigneur,” said Bussy, “ how many militia do you think 
there were here ?” 

“ At least one hundred and fifty.” 

“You have not very famous soldiers, since three men beat 


them.” 
“True, but I shall have the three men who did beat 


them.” 


CHAPTER LIX. 
ROLAND. 


THANKS to the reinforcement which had arrived, M. le Due 
d’Anjou could go where he pleased ; he explored the ramparts 
of the surrounding country and castles. The Angevin gentle- 
men found liberty and amusement at the court of the duke, and 
the three friends were soon intimate with many of these nobles, 
especially those who had pretty wives. ‘The general joy was at 
its height when twenty-two riding horses, thirty carriage horses, 
and forty mules, together with litters, carriages, and wagons, 
arrived at Angers, all the property of the duke. We must allow 
that the saddles were not paid for, and that the coffers were 
empty, but still it made a magnificent effect. ‘The duke’s repu- 
tation for wealth was henceforward solidly established, and all 
the province remained convinced that he was rich enough to 
war against all Europe if need were, therefore they did not 
grudge the new tax which the prince imposed upon them. 
People never mind giving or lending to rich people, only to poor 
ones; therefore the worthy prince lived like a patriarch on all 
the fat of the land. Numerous cavaliers arrived to offer to him 
their adhesion, or their offers of service. One afternoon, how- 
ever, about four o’clock, M. de Monsoreau arrived on horseback 
at the gates of Angers. He had ridden eighteen leagues that 
day ; therefore his spurs were red, and his horse covered with 
foam, and half dead. ‘They no longer made difficulties about 


264 CHICOT, THE JEST 


letting strangers enter, therefore M. de Monsoreau went straight 
through the city to the palace, and asked for the duke. 

“ He is out reconnoitring,” replied the sentinel. 

““Where ?” 

“T do not know.” 

“Diable! what I have to say to him is very pressing.” 

“‘ First put your horse in the stable, or he will fall.” 

“The advice is good ; where are the stables ?” 

As he spoke a man approached and asked for his name. M. 
de Monsoreau gave it. The major-domo (for it was he) bowed 
respectfully, for the chief huntsman’s name was well known in 
Anjou. 

“‘ Monsieur,” said he, “ please to enter and take some repose. 
Monseigneur has not been out more than ten minutes, and 
will not be back till eight o’clock.” 

“ight o’clock ! I cannot wait so long; I am the bearer of 
news which cannot be too soon known to his highness. Can I 
not have a horse and a guide ?” 

“There are plenty of horses, but a guide is a different thing, 
for his highness did not say where he was going.” 

“Well, I will take a fresh horse, and try to discover him.” 

“Probably you will hear where he has passed, monsieur.” 

“Do they ride fast ?” 

Ont no.” 

“Well, get me a horse then.” 

“Will monsieur come into the stables and choose one ? they 
all belong to the duke.” Monsoreau entered. Ten’ or twelve 
fine horses, quite fresh, were feeding from the manger, which 
was filled with grain. 

: Monsoreau looked over them, and then said, “ I will take this 
ay. 

“ Roland ?” 

“Ts that his name 2” 

“Yes, and it is his highness’s favourite horse. M. de Bussy 
ene pin to the duke, and it is quite a chance that it is here to- 

ay. 

Roland was soon saddled, and Monsoreau rode out of the 
stable. 

“In which direction did they start ?” asked he. 

The man pointed it out. 


se Ma foi!” said Monsoreau, “the horse seems to know the 
way,” 


ROLAND. 265 


_ Indeed, the animal set off without being urged, and went 
deliberately out of the city, took a short cut to the gate, and 
then began to accelerate his pace: Monsoreau let him go. 
He went along the boulevard, then turned into a shady lane, 
which cut across the country, passing gradually from a trot toa 
gallop. 

“Oh!” thought Monsoreau, as they entered the woods, “one 
would say we were going to Méridor. Can his highness be 
there ?” and his face grew black at the thought. 

“Oh!” murmured he, ‘‘I who was going to see the prince, 
and putting off till to-morrow to see my wife; shall I see them 
both at the same time ?” 

The horse went on, turning always to the right. 

“We cannot be far from the park,” said he. 

At that moment his horse neighed, and another answered him. 
In a minute Monsoreau saw a wall, and a horse tied to a neigh- 
bouring tree. 

“There is some one,” thought he, turning pale, 


CHAPTER LX. 
WHAT M. DE MONSOREAU CAME TO ANNOUNCE, 


As M. de Monsoreau approached, he remarked the dilapidation 
of the wall ; it was almost in steps, and the brambles had been 
torn away, and were lying about. He looked at the horse 
standing there. The animal had a saddle-cloth embroidered in 
silver, and in one corner an F. andan A. There was no doubt, 
then, that it came from the prince’s stables ; the letters stood 
for Frangois d’Anjou. ‘The count’s suspicions at this sight be- 
came real alarm; the duke had come here, and had come 
often, for, besides the horse waiting there, there was a second 
that knew the way. He tied up his horse near to the other, 
and began to scale the wall. It was an easy task; there were 
places for both feet and hands, and the branches of an oak- 
tree, which hung over, had been carefully cut away. Once up, 
he saw at the foot of a tree a blue mantilla and a black cloak, 
and not far off a man and woman, walking hand in hand, 
with their backs turned to the wall, and nearly hidden by 


266 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


the trees. Unluckily, with M. de Monsoreau’s weight a stone 
fell from the wall on the crackling branches with a great noise. 

At this noise the lovers must have turned and seen him, for 
the cry of a woman was heard, and a rustling of the branches 
as they ran away like startled deer. At this cry, Monsoreau 
felt cold drops on his forehead, for he recognised Diana’s voice. 
Full of fury, he jumped over the wall, and with his drawn sword 
in his hand, tried to follow the fugitives, but they had disap- 
peared, and there was not a trace or a sound to guide him. 
He stopped, and considered that he was too much under the 
influence of passion to act with prudence against so powerful 
arival. Then a sublime idea occurred to him ; it was to climb 
back again over the wall, and carry eff with his own the horse 
he had seen there. He retraced his steps to the wall and 
climbed up again; but on the other side no horse was to be 
seen ; his idea was so good, that before it came to him it had 
come to his adversary. He uttered a howl of rage, clenching 
his fists, but started off at once on foot. In two hours and a 
half, he arrived at the gates of the city, dying with hunger and — 
fatigue, but determined to interrogate every sentinel, and find 
out by what gate a man had entered with two horses. ‘The 
first sentinel he applied to said that, about two hours before, a 
horse without a rider had passed through the gate, and had 
taken the road to the palace; he feared some accident must have 
happened to his rider. Monsoreau ground his teethwith passion, 
and went on to the castle. There he found great life and gaiety, 
windows lighted up, and animation everywhere. He went first 
to the stable, and found his horse in the stall he had taken him 
from ; then, without changing his dress, he went to the dining- 
room. ‘The prince and all his gentlemen were sitting round a 
table magnificently served and lighted. The duke, who had 
been told of his arrival, received him without surprise, and told 
him to sit down and sup with him. 

““Monseigneur,” replied he, “ I am hungry, tired, and thirsty; 
but I will neither eat, drink, nor sit down till I have delivered 
my important message.” 

“You come from Paris >” 

“Yes, in great haste.” 

baWiellespeake” 

Monsoreau advanced, with a smile on his lips and hatred in 


his heart, and said, “ Monseigneur, your mother is advancing 
hastily to visit you.” 


WHAT M. DE MONSOREAU CAME TO ANNOUNCE. 267 


The duke looked delighted. ‘‘It is well,” said he; “M. de 
Monsoreau, I find you to-day, as ever, a faithful servant ; let 
us continue our supper, gentlemen.” 

Monsoreau sat down with them, but gloomy and preoccupied. 
He still seemed to see the two figures among the trees, and to 
hear the cry of Diana. 

“You are overcome with weariness,” said the prince to him, 
“really, you had better go to bed.” 

“Ves,” said Livarot, “or he will go to sleep in his chair.” 

“Pardon, monseigneur, I am tired out.” 

“ Get tipsy,” said Antragues ; ‘“‘ there is nothing so good when 
you are tired. ‘To your health, count !” 

“You must give us some good hunts,” said Ribeirac, “ you 
know the country.” 

“You have horses and woods here,” said Antragues. 

“ And awife,” added Livarot. 

“We will hunt a boar, count,” said the prince. 

““ Oh, yes, to-morrow !” cried the gentlemen. 

“What do you say, Monsoreau ?” 

“ T am always at your highness’s orders, but I am too much 
fatigued to conduct a chase to-morrow ; besides which, I must 
examine the woods.” 

‘“ And we must leave him time to see his wife,” cried the 
duke. 

“‘ Granted,” cried the young men; “ we give him twenty-four 
hours to do all he has to do.” 

“Yes, gentlemen, I promise to employ them well.” 

“Now go to bed,” said the duke, and M. de Monsoreau 
bowed, and went out, very happy to escape. 


CHAPTER LXI. 


HOW THE KING LEARNED THE FLIGHT OF HIS BELOVED 
BROTHER, AND WHAT FOLLOWED. 


WHEN Monsoreau had retired, the repast continued, and was 
more gay and joyous than ever. 

“Now, Livarot,” said the duke, “finish the recital of your 
flight from Paris, which Monsoreau interrupted.” 

Livarot began again, but as our title of historian gives us the 


268 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


privilege of knowing better than Livarot himself what had 
passed, we will substitute our recital for that of the young man. 

Towards the middle of the night Henri III. was awoke by 
an unaccustomed noise in the palace. It was oaths, blows on 
the wall, rapid steps in the galleries, and, amidst all, these words 
continually sounding, “ What will the king say ?” 

Henri sat up and called Chicot, who was asleep on the 
couch. 

Chicot opened one eye. ae 

“ Ah, you were wrong to call me, Henri,” said he; “I was 
dreaming that you had a son.” 

* But listen.” 

“To what? You say enough follies to me by day, without 
breaking in on my nights.” 

“ But do you not hear ?” 

“Oh, oh! I do hear cries.” 

“To you hear, ‘ What will the king say ? 

“Tt is one of two things—either your dog Narcissus is ill, or 
the Huguenots are taking their revenge for St. Bartholomew.” 

“‘ Help me to dress.” 

“Tf you will first help me to get up.” 

“What a misfortune !” sounded from the antechamber. 

“Shall we arm ourselves ?” said the king. 

“We had better go first and see what is the matter.” And 
almost immediately they went out by the secret door into the 
gallery. “I begin to guess,” said Chicot ; “ your unlucky pri- 
soner has hanged himself.” f 

“Qh, no ; it cannot be that.” 

*¢So much the worse.” 

“Come on;” and they entered the duke’s chamber. 

The window was open, and the ladder still hung from it. 
Henri grew as pale as death. 

“Oh, my son, you are not so blasé as I thought !” said Chicot. 

“Escaped !” cried Henri, in such a thundering voice that all 
the gentlemen who were crowded round the window turned in 
terror. Schomberg tore his hair, Quelus and Maugiron struck 
themselves like madmen; as for D’Epernon, he had vanished. 
This sight calmed the king. 

“ Gently, my son,” said he, laying hold of Maugiron. 

“No! mordieu!” cried he, “I will kill myself!” and he 
knocked his head against the wall. 

“Hola! help me to hold him.” 


299 


THE KING LEARNS THE FLIGHT OF HIS BROTHER. 269 


“Tt would be an easier death to pass your sword through 
your body !” said Chicot. 

“ Quelus, my child,” said the king, “you will be as blue as 
Schomberg when he came out of the indigo.” 

Quelus stopped, but Schomberg still continued to tear at his 
hair. 

“¢ Schomberg, Schomberg, a little reason, I beg.” 

“Tt is snough to drive one mad !” 

“ Indeed, it is a dreadful misfortune ; there will be a civil 
war in my kingdom. Who did it—who furnished the ladder ? 
Mordieu ! I will hang all the city! Who was it? Ten thousand 
crowns to whoever will tell me his name, and one hundred 
thousand to whoever will bring him to me, dead or alive !” 

“Tt must have been some Angevin,” said Maugiron. 

“Oh yes! we will kill all the Angevins !” cried Quelus. 

However, the king suddenly disappeared ; he had thought of 
his mother, and, without saying a word, went to her. When he 
entered, she was half lying in a great arm-chair. She heard the 
news without answering. 

“Y5u say nothing, mother. Does not this flight seem to you 
criminal, and worthy of punishment ?” 

“My dear son, liberty is worth as much as a crown; and re- 
member, I advised you to fly in order to gain a crown.” 

“My mother, he braves me—he outrages me !” 

“No; he only saves himself.” 

“ Ah! this is how you take my part.” 

“What do you mean, my son ?” 

“T mean that with age the feelings grow calm—that you do 
not love me as much as you used to do.” 

“Vou are wrong, my son,” said Catherine coldly; “ you are 
my beloved son, but he of whom you complain is also my son.” 

“Well, then, madame, I will go to find other counsellors 
capable of feeling for me and of aiding me.” 

‘Go, my son; and may God guide your counsellors, for they 
will have need of it to aid you in this strait.” 

“ Adieu, then, madame !” 

“ Adieu, Henri! I do not pretend to counsel you—you do 
not need me, I know—but beg your counsellors to reflect well 
before they advise, and still more before they execute.” 

“‘ Ves, madame, for the position is difficult.” 

“ Very grave,” replied she, raising her eyes to heaven. 

“ Have you any idea who it was that carried him off >” 


” 


270 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


Catherine did not reply. 

“I think it was the Angevins,” continued the king. 

Catherine smiled scornfully. =: 

“The Angevins !” 

“Vou do not think so?” 

“T)o you, really >” 

“Tell me what you think, madame.” 

“Why should I ?” 

“To enlighten me.” 

“Enlighten you! I am but a doting old woman, whose only 
influence lies in her prayers and repentance.” 

‘No, mother; speak, you are the cleverest of us all.” 

“‘ Useless ; I have only ideas of the last century ; at my age 
it is impossible I should give good counsel.” 

“Well, then, mother, refuse me your counsel, deprive me of 
your aid. In an hour I will hang all the Angevins in Paris.” 

“‘ Hang all the Angevins !” cried Catherine, in amazement. 

‘Ves, hang, slay, massacre, burn; already, perhaps, my 
friends are out to begin the work.” 

“They will ruin themselves, and you with them.” 

“‘ How so ?” 

‘Blind! Will kings eternally have eyes, and not see ?” 

‘‘ Kings must avenge their injuries, it is but justice, and in 
this case all my subjects will rise to defend me.” 

“You are mad.” 

“Why so?” 

“You will make oceans of blood flow. The standard of 
revolt will soon be raised ; and you will arm against’you a host 
who never would rise for Francois.” 

“But if I do not revenge myself they will think I am afraid.” 

“Did any one ever think I was afraid? Besides, it was not 
the Angevins.” 

“Who was it then ? it must have been my brother's friends.” 

“Your brother has no friends.” 

“But who was it then 2” 

“Your enemy.” 

“What enemy >” 

“OQ! my son, you know you have never had but one; yours, 
mine, your brother Charles’s ; always the same.” 

“ Henri of Navarre, you mean 2” 

“Yes, Henri of Navarre.” 

“ He is not at Paris,” 


_ THE KING LEARNS THE FLIGHT OF HIS BROTHER. 271 


“Do you know who is at Paris, and who is not? No, you 
are all deaf and blind.” 

“Can it have been he ?” 

“My son, 8t every disappointment you meet with, at every 
misfortune that happens to you of which the author is unknown, 
do not seek or conjecture; it is useless. Cry out, it is Henri 
of Navarre, and you will be sure to be right. Strike on the 
side where he is, and you will be sure to strike right. Oh! 
that man, that man; he is the sword suspended over the head 
of the Valois.” 

“Then you think I should countermand my orders about the 
- Angevins ?” 

* At once, without losing an instant. Hasten; perhaps you 
are already too late.” 

Henry flew out of the Louvre to find his friends, but found 
only Chicot drawing figures in the sand with a stone. 


CHAPTER LXIL 


HOW, AS CHICOT AND THE QUEEN MOTHER WERE AGREED, THE 
KING BEGAN TO AGREE WITH THEM. 


“Ts this how you defend your king ?” cried Henri. 

“Ves, it is my manner, and I think it is a good one.” 

“ Good, indeed !” 

“JT maintain it, and I will prove it.” 

“T am curious to hear this proof.” 

“Tt is easy; but first, we have committed a great folly.” 

“ How so?” cried Henri, struck by the agreement between 
Chicot and his mother. 

“Ves,” replied Chicot, “ your friends are crying through the 
city, ‘Death to the Angevins ! and now that I reflect, it was 
never proved that they had anything to do with the affair. And 
your friends, crying thus through the city, will raise that nice 
little civil war of which MM. de Guise have so much need, and 
which they did not succeed in raising for themselves. Besides 
which, your friends may get killed, which would not displease 
me, I confess, but which would afflict you, or else they will 
chase all the Angevins from the city, which will please M. 
d’Anjou enormously.” 


292 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Do you think things are so bad ?” 

‘Yes, if not worse.” 

“ But all this does not explain what you do here, sitting on a 
stone.” 

“T am tracing a plan of all the provinces that your brother 
will raise against you, and the number of men each will furnish 
to the revolt.” 

‘‘Chicot, Chicot, you are a bird of bad augury.” 

“ The owl sings at night, my son, it is his hour. Now it is 
dark, Henri, so dark that one might take the day for the night, 
and I sing what you ought to hear. Look !” 

“¢ At what ?” 

“My geographical plan. Here is Anjou, something like 
a tartlet, you see ; there your brother will take refuge. Anjou, 
well managed, as Monsoreau and Bussy will manage it, will 
alone furnish to your brother ten thousand combatants,” 

“Do you think so ?” 

“That is the minimum ; let us pass to Guyenne ; here it is, 
this figure like a calf walking on one leg. Of course, you will 
not be astonished to find discontent in Guyenne; it is an old 
focus for revolt, and will be enchanted to rise. They can furnish 
8,000 soldiers ; that is not much, but they are well trained. Then 
we have Béarn and Navarre; you see these two compartments, 
which look like an ape on the back of an elephant—they may fur- 
nish about 16,000. Let us count now—10,000 for Anjou, 8,000 
for Guyenne, 16,000 for Béarn and Navarre; making a total of 
34,000.” y 

“You think, then, that the King of Navarre will join my 
brother ?” 

“T should think so.” 

“Do you believe that he had anything to do with my 
brother’s escape ?” 

Chicot looked at him. “That is not your own idea, 
Henri.” 

“Why not >?” 

“Tt is too clever, my son.” 

“Never mind whose idea it was ; answer my question.” 

“Well! I heard a ‘Ventre St. Gris’ in the Rue de la Ferron- 
nerie.” 

. “You heard a ‘Ventre St. Gris? But it might not have been 
a: 
“T saw him.” 


THE KING BEGINS TO AGREE, 273 


“ Vou saw Henri of Navarre in Paris?” 

Bawes.” 

“You saw my mortal enemy here, and did not tell me ?” 

“Tam not a spy. Then there are the Guises; 20,000 or 
25,000 men under the orders of the Duc de Guise will make up 
altogether a nice little army.” 

“But Henri of Navarre and the Duc de Guise are 
enemies.” 

“ Which will not prevent them from uniting against you ; they 
will be free to fight with each other when they have conquered 
you.” 

“Vou are right, Chicot, and my mother is right. I will call 
the Swiss.” 

“Oh, yes! Quelus has got them.” 

““ My guards, then.” 

** Schomberg has them.” 

* My household at least.” 

“They have gone with Maugiron.” 

* Without my orders ?” 

“ And when do you ever give orders, except, perhaps, to 
flagellate either your own skin, or that of others?—But about 
government.—Bah ! allow me to observe that you have been a 
long time finding out that you rank seventh or eighth in this 
kingdom.” 

“Here they are!” cried the king, as three cavaliers ap- 
proached, followed by a crowd of men on foot and on horse- 
back. 

“ Schomberg ! Quelus ! come here,” cried the king. 

They approached. 

“‘T have been seeking you, and waiting for you impatiently. 
What have you done? Do not go away again without my per- 
mission.” 

“There is no more need,” said Maugiron, who now ap- 
proached, “ since all is finished.” 

* All is finished >” 

“ Heaven be praised,” said D’Epernon, appearing all at once, 
no one knew from whence. 

“Then you have killed them ?” cried the king; “well, at least 
the dead do not return.” 

“Oh! we had not that trouble ; the cowards ran away, we had 
scarcely time to cross our swords with them.” 

Henri grew pale. ‘“ With whom ?” said he. 

18 


274 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“With Antragues?”? 
“On the contrary, he killed a lackey of Quelus’s.” 
“Qh!” murmured the king, “here is a civil war lighted 


3 

Quelus started. “It is true,” saidhe © | 
“Ah !? said Chicot, ‘ You begin to perceive it, do you ?” 
“But, M. Chicot, you cried with us, ‘Death to the Ange- 
vins !” : 

“Oh! that is a different thing; I am a fool, and you are 


clever men.” 
“Come, peace, gentlemen ; we shall have enough of war 


soon.” 

“What are your majesty’s orders ?” \ 

“That you employ the same ardour in calming the people as 
you have done in exciting them, and that you bring back all the 
Swiss, my guards, and my household, and have the doors of the 
Louvre closed, so that perhaps to-morrow the bourgeois may 
take the whole thing for a sortie of drunken people.” 

The young men went off, and Henri returned to his mother. 

“‘ Well,” said she, “ what has passed P” 

«¢ All you foresaw, mother.” 

‘‘ They have escaped ?” 

‘Alas! yes.” 

“What else ?” 

“‘Ts not that enough ?” 

aie city t. 

“Ts in tumult ; but that is not what disquiets me.” 

“‘ No, it is the provinces.” 

“Which will revolt.” 

“What shall you do ?” 

*“*T see but one thing.” 

‘What is that ?” 

“To withdraw the army from La Charité, and march on 
Anjou.” 

“ And M. de Guise 2” 

“‘Oh, I will arrest him if necessary.” 

“And you think violent measures will succeed 2” 

“What can I do, then 2” 

“Your plan will not do.” 

“Well, what is your idea 2” 

“Send an ambassador.” 

“To whom ?” 


up 


THE KING BEGINS TO AGREE. 275 


“To your brother.” 

“An ambassador to that traitor ! You humiliate me, mother.” 

“‘ This is not a moment to be proud.” 

“‘ An ambassador who will ask for peace ?” 

“Who will buy it if necessary.” 

“With what ? mon Dieu!” 

“If it were only to secure quietly, afterwards, those who have 
gone to make war on you.” 

“T would give much for that.” 

“ Well, then, the end is worth the means.” 

“T believe you are right, mother ; but whom shall I send >?” 

‘Seek among your friends.” 

“My mother, I do not know a single man to whom I could 
confide such a mission.” 

““Confide it to a woman, then.” 

“¢ My mother, would you consent?” 

“My son, I am very old, and very weak, and death will per- 
haps await me on my return; but I will make this journey so 
rapidly that your brother and his friends will not have had time 
to learn their own power.” 

“Oh, my good mother!” cried Henri, kissing her hands, 
“you are my support, my benefactress !” 

‘That means that I am still Queen of France,” murmured she. 





CHAPTER LAXIII. 


IN WHICH IT IS PROVED THAT GRATITUDE WAS ONE OF 
ST, LUC’S VIRTUES. 


Tue next morning, M. de Monsoreau rose early, and descended 
into the courtyard of the palace. He entered the stable, where 
Roland was in his place. 

“ Are the horses of monseigneur taught to return to their 
stable alone >” asked he of the man who stood there. 

“ No, M. le Comte.” 

“But Roland did so yesterday.” 

“Oh, he is remarkably intelligent.” 

“‘ Has he ever done it before ?” 

“No, monsieur; he is generally ridden by the Duc @’Anjou, 


who is a good rider, and never gets thrown.” 
18—2 


276 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


«“ T was not thrown,” replied the count, “for I also am a good 
rider; no, I tied him to a tree while I entered a house, and at 
my return he had disappeared. I thought he had been stolen, 
or that some passer-by had played a bad joke by carrying him 
away ; that was why I asked how he returned to the stable. 

‘He returned alone, as monsieur said just now.” 

“Tt is strange. Monseigneur often rides this horse, you 
say 2” 

“‘ Nearly every day.” 

“His highness returned late last night ?” 

“¢ About an hour before you.” 

“And what horse did he ride ? was it a bay with a white star 
on his forehead ?” 

‘No, monsieur, he rode Isolin, which you see here.” 

“And in the prince’s escort is there any one who rides such 
a horse as I describe ?” 

‘“‘T know of no one.” 

“Well,” said Monsoreau, impatiently, “saddle me Roland.” 

“ Roland ?” 

‘“‘Ves, are there any orders against it ?” 

‘No; on the contrary, I was told to let you have any horse 
you pleased.” 

When Roland was saddled, Monsoreau said to the man, 
“What are your wages P” 

“Twenty crowns, monsieur.” 

“Will you earn ten times that sum at once ?” 

“T ask no better. But how P” 

“Find out who rode yesterday the horse I described.” 

“Ah, monsieur, what you ask is very difficult, there are so 
many gentlemen come here.” 

“Yes, but two hundred crowns are worth some trouble.” 

“Certainly, M. le Comte, and I will do my best to discover.” 

‘That is right, and here are ten crowns to encourage you.” 

“Thanks, M. le Comte.” 


“Well, tell the prince I have gone to reconnoitre the wood 
for the chase.” 


As he spoke he heard steps behind him, and turned. ‘Ah, 
M. de Bussy !” he cried. 


‘ “Why, M. le Comte, who would have thought of seeing you 
Exens 


“And you, who they said was so ill.” 
“Sol am; my doctor orders absolute rest, and for a week 





CRATJTODE ONE OF ST. LUCS VIRTUES. 297 


T have not left the city. Ah! you are going to ride Roland ; 
I sold him to the duke, who is very fond of him.” 

‘Ves, he is an excellent animal; I rode him yesterday.” 

“Which makes you wish for him again to-day ?” 

mevies..” 

“Vou were speaking of a chase.” 

“Ves, the prince wishes for one.” 

“ Whereabouts is it to be ?” 

“ Near Méridor. Will you come with me ?” 

“ No, thank you, I do not feel well.” 

“Oh!” cried a voice from behind, “there is \i. de Bussy 
out without permission.” 

“Ah! there is my doctor scolding. Adieu, comte.” 

Bussy went away, and Monsoreau jumped into the saddle. 

“What is the matter?” said Rémy ; “you look so pale, I 
believe you are really ill.” 

“Do you know where he is going ?” 

66 No. ? 

“To Méridor.” 

“Well, did you hope he would not P” 

“ Mon Dieu ! what will happen, after what he saw yesterday ?” 

“ Madame de Monsoreau will deny everything.” 

“ But he saw her.” 

“ She will say he did not.” 

“‘ She will never have the courage.” 

‘Oh, M. de Bussy, is it possible you do not know women 
better than that !” 

“ Rémy, I feel very ill.” 

“So I see. Go home, and I will prescribe for you.” 

“What 2” 

“ A slice of fowl and ham, and some lobster.” 

“Oh, I am not hungry.” 

“The more reason I should order you to eat.” 

“Rémy, I fear that that wretch will make a great scene at 
Méridor. I ought to have gone with him when he asked me.” 

“ What for ?” 

“To sustain Diana.” 

‘Oh, she will sustain herself. Besides, you ought not to be 
out ; we agreed you were too ill.” 

“JT could not help it, Rémy, I was so unquiet.” 

Rémy carried him off, and made him sit down to a good 
breakfast. 


278 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


M. de Monsoreau wished to see if it were chance or habit 
that had led Roland to the park wall; therefore he left the 
bridle on his neck. Roland took precisely the same road as on 
the previous day, and before very long M. de Monsoreau found 
himself in the same spot as before. Only now the place was 
solitary, and no horse was there. The count climbed the wall 
again, but no one was to be seen ; therefore, judging that it was 
useless to watch for people on their guard, he went on to the 
park gates. The baron, seeing his son-in-law coming over the 
drawbridge, advanced ceremoniously to meet him. Diana, 
seated under a magnificent sycamore, was reading poetry, while 
Gertrude was embroidering at her side. The count, seeing 
them, got off his horse, and approached them, 

“Madame,” said he, “will you grant me the favour of an 
interview 2” 

“ Willingly, monsieur.” 

“ What calm, or rather what perfidy !” thought the count. 

“Do you do us the honour of remaining at the chateau ?” 
asked the baron. 

“Ves, monsieur, until to-morrow, at least.” 

The baron went away to give orders, and Diana reseated 
herself, while Monsoreau took Gertrude’s chair, and, with a 
look sufficient to intimidate most people, said : 

‘Madame, who was in the park with you yesterday ?” 

“At what time ?” said Diana, in a firm voice. 

SaNtisixe 

SaVneren / 

“Near the copse.” 

“Tt must have been some one else, 1 was not I.” 

“Tt was you, madame.” 

“What do you know about it ?” 

“Tell me the man’s name !” cried Monsoreau, furiously. 

‘What man ?” 

“The man who was walking with you.” 

“T cannot tell, if it was some other woman.” 

“Tt was you, I tell you.” 

“You are wrong, monsieur.” 

“ How dare you deny it? I saw you.” 

“You, monsieur 2” 

“Yes, madame, myself. And there is no other lady here.” 

“You are wrong again ; there is Jeanne de Brissac.” 

“Madame de St. Luc 2” 


GRATITUDE ONE OF ST. LUCS VIRTUES. 279 


“Yes, my friend.” 

“And M. de St. Luc ?” 

“Never leaves her ; theirs was a love-match ; you must have 
seen them.” 

“Tt was not them ; it was you, with some man whom I do 
not know, but whom I will know, I swear. I heard your cry.” 

‘““When you are more reasonable, monsieur, I shall be ready 
to hear you ; at present I will retire.” 

““No, madame, you shall stay.” 

‘““Monsieur, here are M. and Madame de St. Luc, I trust you 
will contain yourself.” 

Indeed, M. and Madame de St. Luc approached. She bowed 
to Monsoreau, and St. Luc gave him his hand ; then, leaving his 
wife to Monsoreau, took Diana, and after a walk they returned, 
warned by the bell for dinner, which was early at Méridor, as 
the baron preserved the old customs. The conversation was 
general, and turned naturally on the Duc d’Anjou, and the 
movement his arrival had caused. Diana sat far from her hus- 
band, between St. Luc and the baron. 


CHAPTER LXIV. 
THE PROJECT OF M. DE ST. LUC. 


WHEN the repast was over, Monsoreau took St. Luc’s arm and 
went out. ‘Do you know,” said he, ‘‘ that I am very happy to 
have found you here, for the solitude of Méridor frightened 
me.” 

“What, with your wife? As for me, with such a companion 
I should find a desert delightful.” 

**T do not say no, but still-——” 

“Still, what >” 

“Tam very glad to have met you here.” 

“Really, monsieur, you are very polite, for I cannot believe 
that you could possibly fear ennui with such a companion, and 
such a country.” 

“Bah! I pass half my life in the woods.” 

“The more reason for being fond of them, it seems to me. 
I know I shall be very sorry to leave them ; unluckily, I fear I 
shall be forced to do so before long.” 


280 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Why so?” 

“Oh! monsieur, when is man the arbiter of his own destiny ? 
He is like the leaf of the tree, which the wind blows about. 
You are very fortunate.” 

“Fortunate ; how P” 

“To live amongst these splendid trees.” 

- “Oh! I do not think I shall stay here long; I am not so 
fond of nature, and I fear these woods; I think they are not 
safe.” 

‘Why ? on account of their loneliness, do you mean ?” 

“No, not that, for I suppose you see friends here.” 

“* Not a soul.” 

“ Ah! really. How long is it since you had any visitor ?” 

“Not since I have been here.” 

“Not one gentleman from the court at Angers ?” 

‘Not one.” 

‘“‘Tmpossible.” 

Steisatruer ” 

“Then I am wrong.” 

“Perfectly ; but why is not the park safe, are there: bears 
here ?” 

+ Oheno,” 

“Wolves 2” 

paNon 

“* Robbers ?” 

“Perhaps. Tell me, monsieur, Madame de St. Luc seemed 
to me very pretty ; is she not ?” 

o Wily, Wes. 

“ Does she often walk in the park?” 

“Often ; she adores the woods, like myself.” 

“And do you accompany her ?” 

“ Always.” 

“ Nearly always ?” 

“What the devil are you driving at ?” 

“Oh; mon Dieu, nothing; or, at least, a trifle.” 

Se idisten:”, 

“They told me——” 

Wellte? 

* You will not be angry 2” 

*“*T never am so.” 

“ Besides, between husbands, these confidences are right; they 
told me a man had been seen wandering in the park.” 


Sa 


LHEePROSECT OF Ms DE ST. LUC. 281 


‘¢ A man.” 

paves.” 

“Who came for my wife ?” 

“Oh ! I do not say that.” 

“You would be wrong not to tell me, my dear Monsoreau. 
Who saw him? pray tell me.’ 

“Oh! to tell you the truth, I do not think it was for Ma 
dame de St. Luc that he came.” 

* For whom, then ?” 

“Ah! I fear it is for Diana.” 

“Oh! I should like that better.” 

© What 2” 

“Certainly ; you know we husbands are an egotistical set. 
Every one for himself, and God for us all.” 

“The devil rather.” 

“Then you think a man entered here ?” 

“T think so.” 

“ And I do more than think,” said St. Luc, “for I saw him.” 

“You saw a man in the park ?” 

tevies!” 

‘© When 2” 

“ Yesterday.” 

*¢ Alone ?” 

“ With Madame de Monsoreau.” 

Savynere 2” 

“Just here to the left.” And as they had walked down to 
the old copse, St. Luc pointed out the spot where Bussy always 
came over. 

“‘ Ah !” continued he, “here is a wall in a bad state; I must 
warn the baron.” 

“Whom do you suspect ?” 

“Of what 2” 

“Of climbing over here to talk to my wife.” 

St. Luc seemed to reflect. 

“Diable !” said he, “it could only have been——’ 

“Whom ?” 

“Why, yourself.” 

*¢ Are you joking, M. de St. Luc?” 

“ Ma foi, no; when I was first married I did such things.” 

“Come ! you are trying to put me off; but do not fear, I 
have courage. Help me to seek, you will do me an immense 
favour.” 


’ 


282 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


St. Luc shook his head. “It must have been you,” said he. 

“Do not jest, beg of you; the thing is serious.” 

“Do you think so?” 

COT TamssuKetOr 1b.” 

“Oh! and how does this man come 2” 

SISeCKCty. 

“Often?” 

“T fear so; look at the marks in the wall.” 

“ Well, I suspected it, but I always fancied it was you.” 

“But I tell you, no !” 

“Qh, I believe you, my dear sir.” 

“ Well, then ” 

“Tt must have been some one else.” 

Monsoreau began to look black, but St. Lue preserved his 
easy nonchalance. 

“‘T have an idea,” said he. 

“Tell me.” 

“Tf it were 

“ Well !” 

SP leiuher cowed 

‘Pray speak.” 

“The Duc d’Anjou.” 

“T thought so at first, but I have made inquiries, and it could 
not have been he.” 

“Oh! he is very cunning.” 

“Yes, but it was not he.” 

“Wait, then.” 

Well !” 

‘“T have another idea ; if it was neither you nor the duke, it 
must have been I.” . 

Sour 

“ Why not 2” 

“You to come on horseback to the outside of the park, when 
you live inside !” 

“Oh, mon Dieu! I am such a capricious being.” 

“You, who fled away when you saw me!” 

“Oh! any one would do that.” 

“Then you were doing wrong,” cried the count, no longer 
able to keep in his anger. 

“T do not say so.” 

“You are mocking me,” cried the count, growing very pale, 
‘and have been doing so for a quarter of an hour.” 





” 





THEO PROJECL OF MRDEYST. LUC. 283 


“You are wrong, monsieur,” said St. Luc, drawing out his 
watch, and looking steadily at him; “it has been twenty 
minutes.” 

“You insult me.” 

“ And you insult me with your questions like a constable.” 

“ Ah! now I see clearly.” 

“ How wonderful, at ten o’clock in the morning. But what do 
you see P” 

‘“‘T see that you act in concert with the traitor, the coward, 
whom I saw yesterday.” 

“‘T should think so ; he is my friend.” 

“Then I will kill you in his place.” 

“Bah! in your own house, and without crying, gare. Ah! 
M. de Monsoreau, how badly you have been brought up, and 
how living among beasts spoils the manners.” 

“Do you not see that I am furious ?” howled the count. 

“‘ Yes, indeed, I do see it, and it does not become you at all; 
you look frightful.” 

The count drew his sword. 

“Ah!” said St. Luc, ‘you try to provoke me; Fou see I am 
perfectly calm.” 

“Yes, I do provoke you.” 

“Take the trouble to get over the wall ; on the other side we 
shall be on neutral ground.” 

What dol care!” 

*T do; I do not want to kill you in your own house.” 

“Very well!” said Monsoreau, climbing over. 

“ Take care ; pray do not hurt yourself, my dear count; those 
stones are loose,” said St. Luc. Then he also got over. 


CHAPTER LXV. 


HOW M. DE ST. LUC SHOWED M. DE MONSOREAU THE THRUST 
THAT THE KING HAD TAUGHT HIM. 


*¢ ARE you ready ?” cried Monsoreau. 

“No ; I have the sun in my eyes.” 

© Move then ; I warn you I shall kill you.” 

“Shall you really? Well, man proposes, and God disposes. 
Look at that bed of poppies and dandelions.” 

EoW ell!” 


284 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Well, I mean to lay you there.” And he laughed as he drew 
his sword. Monsoreau began the combat furiously, but St. Luc 
parried his thrusts skilfully. 

‘¢ Pardieu ! _M. de Monsoreau,” said he, ‘‘ you use your sword 
very well ; you might kill any one but Bussy or me.” 

Monsoreau grew pale. 

“ As for me,” continued St. Luc, “the king, who loves me, 
took the trouble to give me a great many lessons, and showed 
me, among other things, a thrust, which you shall see presently. 
I tell you, that you may have the pleasure of knowing you are 
Killed by the king’s method; it is very flattering.” And then 
suddenly he rushed furiously on Monsoreau, who, half wild with 
rage as he was, parried five thrusts, but received the sixth full in 
his chest. 

“ Ah!” said St. Luc, “you will fall just where I told you,” 
as Monsoreau sank down on the poppies. Then, wiping his 
sword, he stood quietly by, watching the changes which came 
over the face of the dying man. 

“* Ah, you have killed me !” cried Monsoreau. 

“T intended to do so, but now I see you dying, devil take 
me if I am not sorry for what I have done. You are horribly 
jealous, it is true, but you were brave. Have you any last wish ? 
If so, tell it tome; and, on the faith of a gentleman, it shall be 
executed. Are you thirsty? Shall I get you water ?” 

Monsoreau did not reply. He turned over with his face to 
the earth, biting the ground, and struggling in his blood. Then 
he tried to raise his head, but fell back with a groan. 

“Come, he is dead; let me think no more about him. Ah! 
but that is not so easy, when you have killed a man.” And 
jumping back over the wall, he went to the chateau. The first 
person he saw was Diana talking to his wife. 

‘* How well she will look in black,” thought he. Then, ap- 
proaching them, “ Pardon me,” said he, “ but may I say a few 
words to Jeanne ?” 

“Do so ; I will go to my father.” 

‘‘ What is it?” said Jeanne, when Diana was gone ; “ you look 
vather gloomy.” 

6 Why, yes.” 

“What has happened 2” 

“Oh, mon Dieu! an accident.” 

6c To you pay 


‘Not precisely to me, but to a person who was near me.” 


Ke 


ee ee a oe 


THE THRUST THAT THE KING TAUGHT ST, LUC. 285 


« Who was it ?” 

“The person I was walking with.” 

«© M. de Monsoreau ?” 

“ Alas! yes; poor dear man.” 

‘What has happened to him ?” 

“T believe he is dead.” 

“ Dead !” cried Jeanne, starting back in horror. 

Just so.” 

‘‘ He who was here just now talking—— 

“Ves, that is just the cause of his death; he talked too 
much.” 

“St, Luc, you are hiding something from me !” eried Jeanne, 
seizing his hands. 

“1! Nothing; not even the place where he lies.” 

‘© Where is it P” 

“ Down there behind the wall; iust where Bussy used to 
tie his horse.” 

“Tt was you who killed him.” 

“ Parbleu | that is not very difficult to discover.” 

“ Unlucky that you are !” 

«Ah, dear friend ! he provoked me, insulted me, drew the 
sword first.” 

“Tt is dreadful! the poor man !” 

“ Good; I was sure of it; before a week is over he will be 
called St. Monsoreau.” ‘ 

“But you cannot stay here in the house of the man you 
have killed.” 

“So I thought at once, and that is why I came to ask you to 
get ready.” 

“He has not wounded you ?” 
“No, I am perfectly unhurt.” 

“Then, we will go.” 

“ As quickly as possible, for you know the accident may be 
discovered at any moment.” 

“Then Diana is a widow.” 

“That is just what I thought of” 

“ After you killed him ?” 

““ No, before.” 

“Well, I will go and tell her.” 

“Spare her feelings.” 

“Do not laugh. Meanwhile you get the horses saddled. 
But where shall we go?” 


”? 


286 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


iG Paris, 

“ But the king ?” a 

“Oh! he will have forgotten everything by this time ; be- 
sides, if there is to be war, as seems probable, he will be glad of 
me. But I must have pen and ink.” 

“For what ?” 

“To write to Bussy ; I cannot leave Anjou without telling 
him why.” =a 

“No, of course not; you will find all that you require in my 
room.” St. Luc went in, and wrote,— 


“ DEAR FRIEND, 

“You will learn, by report, ere long, the accident which 
has happened to M. de Monsoreau ; we had together, by the old 
copse, a discussion on broken-down walls and horses that go 
home alone. In the heat of the argument, he fell on a bed of 
poppies and dandelions so hard that he died there. 

“Your friend for life, 
“Sr. ve. 
“P.S. As you may think this rather improbable, I must add 
that we had our swords in our hands. I set off at once for 
Paris to make peace with the king, Anjou not seeming to me 
very safe after what has occurred.” 


Ten minutes after a servant set off for Angers with this letter, 
while M. and Madame de St. Luc went out by another door, 
leaving Diana much grieved at their departure, and much em- 
barrassed how to tell the baron what had occurred. She had 
turned away her eyes from St. Luc as he passed. 

“That is the reward for serving your friends,” said he to his 
wife ; “decidedly all people are ungrateful excepting me.” 


CHAPTER LXVI. 


IN WHICH WE SEE THE QUEEN-MOTHER ENTER THE TOWN OF 
ANGERS, BUT NOT TRIUMPHANTLY. 


At the same time that M. de Monsoreau fell under the sword 
of St. Luc, a flourish of trumpets sounded at the closed gates 
of Angers. It was Catherine de Medicis, who arrived there 


THE QUEEN-MOTHER ENTERS ANGERS. 287 


with rather a large suite. They sent to tell Bussy, who rose 
from his bed, and went to the prince, who immediately got 
— into his. Certainly the airs played by the trumpets were fine, 

but they had not the virtue of those which made the walls of 
Jericho fall, for the gates did not open. Catherine leaned out 
of her litter to show herself to the guards, hoping the sight 
of her would do more than the sound of the trumpets. They 
saw her, and saluted her courteously, but did not open the 
gates. ‘Then she sent a gentleman to demand admittance, but 
they replied that Angers being in a state of war, the gates 
could not be opened without some necessary formalities. 
Catherine was furious. At last Bussy appeared, with five other 
gentlemen. 

“Who is there ?* cried he. 

“Tt is her majesty the queen mother, who has come to visit 
Angers.” 

“Very well, go to the left, and about eighty steps off you will 
find the postern.” 

“ A postern for her majesty !” cried the gentleman. 

But Bussy was no longer there to hear, he and his friends had 
ridden off towards the indicated spot. 

“ Did your majesty hear ?” asked the gentleman. 

“Oh! yes, monsieur, I heard ; let us go there, if that be the 
only way to get in.” 

The cortége turned to the left, and the postern opened. 

““Vour majesty is welcome to Angers,” said Bussy. 

“ Thank you, M. de Bussy,” said the queen, descending from 
her littef{ and advancing towards the little door. Bussy stopped 
her. ‘‘ Take care, madame,” said he, ‘‘the door is low, and 
you will hurt yourself.” 

“ Must I then stoop ¢ ?” replied she; “it is the first time I 
ever entered a city so.’ 

Once through the gate she re-entered her litter to go to the 
palace, Bussy and his friends escorting her. 

‘‘Where is my son?” cried she; at why do I not see M. 
d’Anjou ?” 

“ Monseigneur is ill, madame, or else your majesty cannot 
doubt that he would have come himself to do the honours of 
his city.” 

Catherine was sublime in hypocrisy. 

“ T]|—my poor child, ill!” cried she; “ah! let us hasten to 
him ; is he well taken care of ?” 


288 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Yes, madame, we do our best.” 

“ Does he suffer ?” Pre 3 5 e- 

“ Horribly, he is subject to these sudden indispositions. 

“Tt was sudden, then ?” 

“Mon Dieu ! yes, madame.” 

When they arrived at the palace, Bussy ran up first to the 
duke. 

“Here she is !” cried he. 

‘Ts she furious ?” 

‘¢ -xasperated.” 

“Does she complain ?” 

“No, she does worse, she smiles.” 

“What do the people say ?” 

‘“‘ They looked at her in mute terror; now, monseigneur, be 
careful.” 

“© We stick to war ?” 

“ Pardieu, ask one hundred to get ten, and with her you will 
only get five.” 

“Bah! you think me very weak. Are youall here? Where 
is Monsoreau ?” 

‘“‘T believe he is at Méridor.” 

‘Her majesty the queen mother!” cried the usher at the 
door. 

Catherine entered, looking pale. ‘The duke made a move- 
ment to rise, but she threw herself into his arms and half stifled 
him with kisses. She did more—she wept. 

“We must take care,” said Antragues to Ribeirac, “each 
tear will be paid for by blood.” 

Catherine now sat down on the foot of the bed. Ata sign 
from Bussy every one went away but himself. 

“Will you not go and look after my poor attendants, M. de 
Bussy ? you who are at home here,” said the queen. 

_It was impossible not to go, so he replied, “I am happy to 
please your majesty,” and he also retired. 

Catherine wished to discover whether her son were really ill 
or feigning. But he, worthy son of such a mother, played his 
part to perfection. She had wept, he had a fever. Catherine, 
deceived, thought him really ill, and hoped to have more influ- 
ence over a mind weakened by suffering. She overwhelmed 
him with tenderness, embraced him, and wept so much that at 
last he asked her the reason. Pit 

“You have run so great a risk,” replied she. 








THE QUEEN-MOTHER ENTERS ANGERS. 289 


“In escaping from the Louvre, mother ?” 

sf No, after.” 

** How so ?” 

“Those who aided you in this unlucky escape——’ 

“Well 2” 

“Were your most cruel enemies.” 

*‘ She wishes to find out who it was,” thought he. 

“The King of Navarre,” continued she, “ the eternal scourge 
of our race——” 

“ Ah! she knows.” 

“ He boasts of having gained much by it.” 

“That is impossible, for he had nothing to do with it ; and if 
he had, I am quite safe, as you see. I have not seen the King 
of Navarre for two years.” 

“Tt was not only of danger I spoke!” 

“Of what, then ?” replied the duke, smiling, as he saw the 
tapestry shake behind the queen. 

“The king’s anger,” said she, in a solemn voice ; “the fu- 
rious anger which menaces you——” 

“This danger is something like the other, madame; he may 
be furious, but I am safe here.” 

“You believe so?” 

*T am sure of it ; your majesty has announced it to me your- 
self.” 

“How so?” 

“ Because if you had been charged only with menaces, you 
would not have come, and the king in that case would have 
hesitated*to place such a hostage in my hands,” 

“ A hostage ! I!’ cried she, terrified. 

“<A most sacred and venerable one,” replied the duke, witha 
triumphant glance at the wall. 

Catherine was baffled, but she did not know that Bussy was 
encouraging the duke by signs. 

““My son,” said she at length, “ you are quite right ; they are 
words of peace I bring to you.” 

“T listen, mother, and I think we shall now begin to under- 
stand each other.” 


? 


19 


290 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


CHAPTER LXVII 
LITTLE CAUSES AND GREAT EFFECTS, 


CATHERINE had, as we have seen, had the worst of the argu- 
ment. She was surprised, ard began to wonder if her son 
were really as decided as he appeared to be, when a slight 
event changed the aspect of affairs. Bussy had been, as we 
said, encouraging the prince secretly at every word that he 
thought dangerous to his cause. Now his cause was war at 
any price, for he wished to stay in Anjou, watch M. de Mon- 
soreau, and visit his wife. ‘The duke feared Bussy, and was 
guided by him. Suddenly, however, Bussy felt himself pulled 
by his cloak ; he turned and saw Rémy, who drew him gently 
towards him. 

“What is it, Rémy?” said he impatiently. “ Why disturb 
me at such a moment ?” 

(Avletter:” 

“And fora letter you take me from this important conyer- 
sation.” 

“Tt is from Meéridor.” 

“Oh! thank you, my good Rémy.” 

“Then I was not wrong P” 

“Oh, no; where is it ?” 

“That is what made me think it of importance; the mes: 
senger would only give it to you yourself.” 

ealisshegiere a. 

“Ves.” : 

“ Bring him in.” ; 

Rémy opened the door, and a servant entered. 

“‘ Here is M. de Bussy,” said Rémy. 

“ Oh, I know him well,” said the man, giving the letter. 

“Did she give it to you ?” 

No 5oMadeStwluact? 

As Bussy read, he grew first pale, then crimson. 

Rémy dismissed the servant, and Bussy, with a bewildered 
look, held out the letter to him. 

“See,” said he, “ what St. Luc has done for me.” 

“Well,” said Rémy, “this appears to me te be very good; 
and St. Luc is a gallant fellow.” 


LITTLE CAUSES, AND GREAT EFFECTS. 201 


 “ Tt is incredible !” cried Bussy. 

“Certainly ; but that is nothing. Here is our position quite 
changed ; I shall have a Comtesse de Bussy for a patient.” 

“Ves, she shall be my wife. So he is dead.” 

“So, you see, It is written.” 

“© Oh, it seems like a dream, Rémy. What! shall I see no 
more that spectre, alvays coming between me and happiness ? 
It cannot be true.” 

“Tt is true; read again, ‘he died there.’” 

“But Diana cannot stay at Méridor—I do not wish it; she 
must go where she will forget him.” 

‘Paris will be best. people soon forget at Paris.” 

“Vou are right; we will return to the little house in the Rue 
des Tournelles, and she shall pass there her months of widow- 
hood in obscurity.” — 

‘But to go to Paris you must have z 

“What ?” 

* Peace in Anjou.” 

“True; oh, mon Dieu ! what time lost.” 

“That means that you are going at once to Méridor.” 

“No, not I, but you; I must stay here; besides, she might 
not like my presence just now.” 

‘“* How shall I see her? Shall I go to the castle?” 

“No; go first to the old copse and see if she is there ; if she 
is not, then go to the castle.” 

‘What shall I say to her?” 

“Say that lam half mad.” And pressing the young man’s 
hand, he returned to his place behind the tapestry. 

Catherine had been trying to regain her ground. 

“‘ Myson,” she had said, “it seemed to me that a mother and 
son could not fail to understand each other.” 

“Yet you see that happens sometimes.” 

“ Never when she wishes it.” 

““When they wish it, you mean,” said the duke, seeking a 
sign of approbation from Bussy for his boldness. 

“ But I wish it, my son, and am willing to make any sacrifices 
to attain peace.” 

Ob. 

“Yes, my dear child. What do you ask ?—what do you de- 
mand? Speak.” 

“Oh, my mother !” said Francois, almost embarrassed at his 
own easy victory. 





19—2 


292 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“ Listen, my son. You do not wish to drown the kingdom in 
blood—it is not possible ; you are neither a bad Frenchman nor 
a bad brother.” ' 

“My brother insulted me, madame, and I owe him nothing, 
either as brother or king.” 

“ But I, Francois—you cannot complain of me ?” 

“ Yes, madame, you abandoned me.” 

“Ah! you wish to kill me. Well, a mother does not care to 
live to see her children murder each other !” cried Catherine, 
who wished very much to live. 

“Oh, do not say that, madame, you tear my heart!” cried 
Francois, whose heart was not torn at all. 

Catherine burst into tears. The duke took her hands, and tried 
to reassure her, not without uneasy glances towards the tapestry. 

‘But what do you want or ask for, mother? I will listen,” 
said he. 

“J wish you to return to Paris, dear child, to return to your 
brother’s court, who will receive you with open arms.” 

“ No, madame, it is not he whose arms are open to receive 
me-—it is the Bastille.” 

‘No; return, and on my honour, on my love as a mother, I 
solemnly swear that you shall be received by the king as though 
you were king and he the Duc d’Anjou.” 

The duke looked to the tapestry. 

“ Accept, my son; you will have honours, guards. 

“Oh, madame, your son gave me guards—his four,minions id 

“Do not reply so; you shall choose your own guards, and 
M. de Bussy shall be their captain, if you like.” 

Again the duke glanced to the wall, and, to his surprise, saw 
Bussy smiling‘and applauding by every possible method. 

“What is the meaning of this change ?” thought the duke ; 
“is it that he may be captain of my guards? Then must I 
accept ?” said he aloud, as though talking to himself. 

“Ves, yes!” signed Bussy, with head and hands. 

“ Quit Anjou, and return to Paris ?” 

“Ves !” signed Bussy, more decidedly than ever. 

“Doubtless, dear child,” said Catherine, “it is not disagree- 
able to return to Paris.” 

“Well, I will reflect,” said the duke, who wished to consult 
with Bussy. 

“T have won,” thought Catherine. 

‘They embraced once more, and separated. 


/ 


_— 


M. DE MONSOREAU OPENS AND SHUTS HIS EYES, 293 


CHAPTER LXVIII. 


HOW M.. DE MONSOREAU OPENED AND SHUT HIS EYES, WHICH 
PROVED THAT HE WAS NOT DEAD. 


Rémy rode along, wondering in what humour he should find 
Diana, and what he should say to her. He had just arrived at 
the park wall, when his horse, which had been trotting, stopped 
so suddenly that, had he not been a good rider, he would have 
been thrown over his head. Rémy, astonished, looked to see 
the cause, and saw before him a pool of blood, and a little 
further on, a body, lying against the wall. “ It is Monsoreau !” 
cried he ; “how strange! he lies dead there, and the blood is 
down here. Ah! there is the track; he must have crawled 
there, or rather that good M. de St. Luc leaned him up against 
the wall that the blood might not fly to his head. He died with 
his eyes open, too.” 

All at once Rémy started back in horror ; the two eyes, that 
he had seen open, shut again, and a paleness more livid than ever 
spread itself over the face of the defunct. Rémy became almost 
as pale as M. de Monsoreau, but, as he was a doctor, he quickly 
recovered his presence of mind, and said to himself that if 
Monsoreau moved his eyes, it showed he was not dead. “ And 
yet I have read,” thought he, “of strange movements after 
death. This devil of a fellow frightens one even after death. 
Yes, his-eyes are quite closed; there is one method of ascer- 
taining whether he is dead or not, and that is to shove my 
sword into him, and if he does not move, he is certainly dead.” 
And Rémy was preparing for this charitable action, when sud- 
denly the eyes opened again. Rémy started back, and the 
perspiration rolled off his forehead as he murmured, “ He is 
not dead; we are ina nice position. Yes, but if I kill him he 
will be dead.” And he looked at Monsoreau, who seemed also 
to be looking at him earnestly. 

“Oh!” cried Rémy, “I cannot do it. God knows that if 
he were upright before me I would kill him with all my heart ; 
but as he is now, helpless and three parts dead, it would be an 
infamy.” 

“ Help!” murmured Monsoreau, “I am dying.” 

“ Mordieu !” thought Rémy, “my position is embarrassing. 


294 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


I am a doctor, and, as such, bound to succour my fellow- 
creatures when they suffer. It is true that Monsoreau 1s so 


ugly that he can scarcely be called a fellow-creature, still he is — 


aman. Come, I must forget that I am the friend of M. de 
Bussy, and do my duty as a doctor.” 

“ Help !” repeated the wounded man. 

“Here I am,” said Rémy. 

“ Fetch me a priest and a doctor.” 

“The doctor is here, and perhaps he will dispense with the 
priest.” 

“ Rémy,” said Monsoreau, “by what chance—— 

Rémy understood all the question might mean. This was 
no beaten road, and no one was likely to come without par- 
ticular business. 

“ Pardieu !” he replied, “a mile or two off I met M. de St. 
Luc——” 

“Ah! my murderer.” 

“ And he said, ‘Rémy, go to the old copse, there you will 
find a man dead.” 

“ Dead ?” 

“Ves, he thought so; well, I came here and saw you.” 

“And now, tell me frankly, am I mortally wounded ag 

“TJ will try to find out.” 

Rémy approached him carefully, took off his cloak, his 
doublet and shirt, The sword had penetrated between the 
sixth and seventh ribs. 

“Do you suffer much ?” 

“Tn my back, not in my chest.” 

“ Ab Jet mersee:; where r” 

‘* Below the shoulder bone.” 

“The steel must have come against a bone.” And he began 
to examine. ‘No, I am wrong,” said he, “the sword came 
against nothing, but passed right through.” Monsoreau fainted 
after this examination. 

“ Ah! that is all right,” said Remy, ‘‘ syncope, low pulse, cold 
in the hands and legs: Diable! the widowhood of Madame 
de Monsoreau will not last long, I fear.” 

At this moment a slight bloody foam rose to the lips of the 
wounded man. 

Rémy drew from his pocket his lancet case ; then tearing off 
a strip from the patient’s shirt, bound it round his arm. 

“We shall see,” said he, “if the blood flows. Ah, it does! 


? 


— 


M. DE MONSOREAU OPENS AND SHUTS HIS EVES, 295 


and I believe that Madame de Monsoreau will not be a widow. 
Pardon, my dear M. de Bussy, but I am a doctor.” 

Presently the patient breathed, and opened his eyes. 

“Oh !” stammered he, “I thought all was over.” 

** Not yet, my dear monsieur ; it is even possible——” 

phat De live 

“Oh, mon Dieu! yes; but let me close the wound. Stop; 
do not move; nature at this moment is aiding my work. I 
make the blood flow, and she stops it. Ah! nature is a great 
doctor, my dear sir. Let me wipe your lips. See, the bleeding 
has stopped already. Good; all goes well, or rather badly.” 

“ Badly !” 

“No, not for you; but I know what I mean.” 

“You think I shall get well >” 

“ Alas! yes.” 

“You are a singular doctor, M. Rémy.” 

“ Never mind, as long as I cure you,” said he, rising. 

“Do not abandon me,” said the count. 

“ Ah! you talk too much. Diable! I ought to tell him to 
cry out.” 

“What do you mean ?” 

“ Never mind ; your wound is dressed. Now I will go to the 
castle and fetch assistance.” 

“ And what must I do meanwhile ?” 

* Keep quite still; do not stir; breathe lightly, and try not 
to cough. Which 1s the nearest house ?” 

“The chateau de Meridor.” 

“Which is the way to it ?” said Remy, affecting ignorance. 

“Get over the wall, and you will find yourself in the 
park.” 

“Very well; I go.” 

“Thanks, generous man.’ 

Generous, indeed, if you oa knew all.” 

He soon arrived at the chateau, where all the inhabitants were 
busy looking for the body of the count ; for St. Luc had given 
them a wrong direction. Rémy came among them like a thunder- 
bolt, and was so eager to bring them to the rescue, that Diana 
looked at him with surprise. 

“T thought he was Bussy’s friend,” murmured she, as Rémy 
disappeared, carrying with him a wheel-barrow, lint and water. 


296 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


CHAPTER LXIX. 


HOW M. LE DUC D’ANJOU WENT TO MERIDOR TO CONGRATU- 
LATE MADAME DE MONSOREAU ON THE DEATH OF HER 
HUSBAND, AND FOUND HIM THERE BEFORE HIM, 


As soon as the duke left his mother, he hastened to Bussy, to 
know the meaning of all his signs. Bussy, who was reading St. 
Luc’s letter for the fifth time, received the prince with a gracious 
smile. 

“ How! monseigneur takes the trouble to come to my house 
to seek me.” 

‘Ves, mordieu, I want an explanation.” 

“From me ?” 

‘Ves, from you.” 

“T listen, monseigneurt” 

‘Vou tell me to steel myself against the suggestions of my 
mother, and to sustain the attack valiantly. I do so; and in 
the hottest of the fight you tell me to surrender.” 

“‘T gave you all those charges, monseigneur, because I was 
ignorant of the object for which your mother came; but now 
that I see that she has come to promote your highness’s honour 
and glory ——” 

“¢ How ! what do you mean ?” y 

“ Doubtless: what does your highness want? To triumph 
over your enemies, do you not? For I do not believe, as some 
people say, that you wish to become King of France.” 

The duke looked sullen. 

“Some might counsel you to it, but believe me they are your 
most cruel enemies. Consider for yourself, monseigneur ; have 
you one hundred thousand men—ten millions of livres— 
alliances with foreigners—and, above all, would you turn against 
your king ?” 

‘“‘ My king did not hesitate to turn against me.” 

“Ah! there you are right. Well! declare yourself—get 
crowned—take the title of King of France—and if you succeed, 
I ask no better; I should grow great with you.” 

“Who speaks of being king?” cried the duke, angrily ; “you 
discuss a question which I have never proposed, even to 
myself,” 





THE DUC D ANJOU GOES TO MERIDOR. 207 


“ Well, then, that is settled. Let them give you a guard and 
five hundred thousand livres. Obtain, before peace is signed, 
a subsidy from Anjou, to carry on the war. Once you have it, 
you can keep it. So, we should have arms and money, and we 
could do——God knows what.” 

“But once they have me at Paris, they will laugh at me.” 

“Oh! impossible, monseigneur ; did you not hear what the 
queen mother offered you ?” 

“She offered me many things.” 

“That disquiets you ?” 

ON Ae 

“But, among other things, she offered you a company of 
guards, even if | commanded it.” 

“Ves, she offered that.” 

“Well, accept ; I will be captain; Antragues and Livarot 
lieutenants; and Ribeirac ensign. Let us get up your com- 
pany for you, and see if they dare to laugh at you then.” 

‘““Ma foi! I believe you are right, Bussy ; f will think of it.” 

“ Do so, monseigneur.” 

“What were you reading so attentively when I came in?” 

“Oh ! a letter, which interests you still more than me. Where 
the devil were my brains, that I did not show it to you ?” 

‘What is it?” 

“«Sad news, monseigneur ; Monsoreau is dead.” 

“ What !” cried the duke, with a surprise which Bussy thought 
was a joyful one. 

“‘ Dead, monseigneur.” 

“© M. de Monsoreau !” 

“Mon Dieu ! yes; are we not all mortal ?” 

** Yes ; but so suddenly.” 

“Ah! but if you are killed ?” 

“Then, he was killed P” 

“So it seems; and by St. Luc, with whom he quarrelled.” 

“Oh, that dear St. Luc !” 

“T did not think he was one of your highness’s friends.” 

“Oh, he is my brother’s, and, since we are to be reconciled, 
his friends are mine. But are you sure ?” 

“As sure as I can be. Here is a letter from St. Luc, an- 
nouncing it; and I have sent Rémy, my doctor, to present my 
condolences to the old baron.” 

“Qh, Monsoreau !” cried the prince, with his malignant smile. 

“ Why. monseigneur, one would say you hated the poor count.” 


298 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“No, it was you.” 19; 

“ Of course I did; did he not humiliate me through you ?” 

“You remember it still.” 

“But you, monseigneur, whose friend and tool he was——" 

“ Well, well, get my horse saddled, Bussy.” 

“What for?” ow 

“To go to Méridor; I wish to pay a visit to Madame Mon- 
soreau. I have been projecting one for some time, and I do 
not know why it has not taken place sooner ” 

“ Now Monsoreau is dead,” thought Bussy, ‘I do not care ; 
I will protect Diana. I will go with him, and see her” 

A quarter of an hour after, the prince, Bussy, and ten gentle- 
men rode to Méridor, with that pleasure which fine weather, turf, 
and youth always inspire in men on horseback. % 

The porter at the chateau came to ask the names of the visitors. 

“The Duc d’Anjou,” replied the prince. 

The porter blew his horn, and soon windows were opened, 
and they heard the noise of bolts and bars as the door was un- 
fastened, and the old baron appeared on the threshold, holding 
in his hand a bunch of keys. Immediately behind him stood a 
lady. 
“Ah, there is the beautiful Diana !” cried the duke ; “ do you 
see her, Bussy ?” 

Diana, indeed, came out of the house, and behind her came 
a litter, on which lay Monsoreau, his eyes shining with fever and 
jealousy as he was carried along. 

“What does this mean ?” cried the duke to his‘companion, 
who had turned whiter than the handkerchief with which he was 
trying to hide his emotion. 

“Long live the Duc d’Anjou !” cried Monsoreau, raising his 
hand in the air by a violent effort. 

“Take care, you will hurt yourself,” said a voice behind him. 
It was Rémy. 

Surprise does not last long at court, so, witha smile, the duke 
said, “Oh, my dear count, what a happy surprise !_ Do you know 
we heard you were dead 2” 

“Come near, monseigneur, and let me kiss your hand. Thank 
God, not only I am not dead, but I shall live; I hope to serve 
you with more ardour than ever.” 

As for Bussy, he felt stunned, and scarcely dared to look at 
Diana. This treasure, twice lost to him, belonged still to his 
rival, 





THE DUC D\'ANJOU GOES TO MERIDOR. 299 


“ And you, M. de Bussy,” said Monsoreau, “receive my thanks, 
for it is almost to you that I owe my life.” 

“To me !” stammered the young man, who thought the count 
was mocking him. 

“Yes, indirectly, it is true, for here is my saviour,” said he, 
turning to Rémy, who would willingly have sunk into the earth. 
Then, in spite of his signs, which he took for precautions to him- 
self, he recounted the care and skill which the young doctor had 
exhibited towards him. 

The duke frowned, and Bussy looked thunders. The poor 
fellow raised his bands to heaven. 

‘ [ hear,” continued the count, “that Rémy one day found 
you dying, as he found me. It is a tie of friendship between 
us, M. de Bussy, and when Monsoreau loves, he loves well ; it 
is true that whea he hates, it is also with all his heart.” 

“ Come, then,” said the duke, getting off his horse, ‘ deign, 
beautiful Diana, to do us the honours of the house, which we 
thought to find in grief, but which we find still the abode of joy. 
As for you, Monsoreau, rest—you require It.” 

“ Monseigneur |’ said the count, ‘“‘1t shall never be said that 
Monsoreau, while he lived, allowed another to do the honours 
of his house to you; my servants will carry me, and wherever 
you go, I shall follow.” 

Bussy approached Diana, and Monsoreau smiled ; he took her 
hand, and he smiled again. It was only the duke he feared. 

“ Here ts a great change, M. le Comte,” said Diana. 

“ Alas! why is it not greater ?” 


CHAPTER LXx. 
THE INCONVENIENCE OF LARGE LITTERS AND NARROW DOORS. 


Bussy did not quit Diana; the smiles of Monsoreau gave him 
a liberty which he was only too glad to make use of. : 

“ Madame,” said he to Diana, “I am in truth the most miser- 
ableof men. On the news of his death, I advised the prince to 
return to Paris, and to come to terms with his mother ; he did 
so, and now you remain in Anjou.” 

“Oh, Louis,” replied she, ‘we dare not say that we are un- 


300 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


happy; so many happy days, so many joys—do you forget 
them all ?” 

“JT forget nothing, madame; on the contrary, I remember 
but too much, and that is why I suffer as I do at losing this 
happiness. What shall I do if I return to Paris, a hundred 
leagues from you? My heart sinks at the thought, Diana.” 

Diana looked at him, and saw so much grief in his eyes, that 
she said, “ Well, if you go to Paris, I will go also.” 

“ How! will you quit M. de Monsoreau ?” 

“No, he would not allow me to doso; he must come with us.” 

“ Wounded, ill as he is? Impossible !” 

“ He will come, I tell you.” And, leaving Bussy, she went to 
the prince. The count frowned dreadfully 

“‘Monseigneur,” said she, ‘they say your highness is fond of 
flowers ; if you will come with me, I will show you the most 
beautiful in Anjou.” 

The duke offered her his hand. 

“Where are you about to take monseigneur?” asked Mon- 
soreau uneasily. 

“Into the greenhouse.” 

** Ah! well, carry me there.” 

“Ma foi!” thought Rémy, “I was right not to kill him, for 
he will soon kill himself.” 

Diana smiled on Bussy, and said to him, in a low voice, “ Do 
not let M. de Monsoreau suspect that you are about to leave 
Anjou, and I will manage all.” / 

‘““Good!” said Bussy, and approaching the prince, he 
whispered, “ Do not let Monsoreau know that we intend to 
make peace.” 

SWihynot P” 

“Because he might tell the queen-mother, to make a friend 
Ofhen” 

“You suspect him, then ?” 

Savieso ad do: 

“Well, so do I; I believe he only counterfeited death to de- 
ceive us.” 

‘No, he really received a sword-thrust through his body, and 
but for that fool of a Rémy, he would have died ; I believe his 
soul must be glued to his body.” 

They arrived at the conservatory, and Diana continued to 
smile charmingly on the prince. He passed first, then Diana, 
and Monsoreau wished to follow, but it was impossible, His 


THE INCONVENIENCE OF LARGE LITTERS. 301 


litter was too large to go through the door. At this sight he 
uttered a groan. Diana went on quietly, without looking at 
him, but Bussy, who understood her, said to him: 

“Tt is useless to try, M le Comte, your litter will not pass.” 

“ Monseigneur !” cried Monsoreau, “ do not go into that con- 
servatory, some of the flowers exhale dangerous perfumes.” 

Then he fainted, and was carried to his room. 

Bussy went to tell Diana what had happened, and she left 
the duke to go to tthe castle. 

“ Have we succeeded 2” said Bussy to her as she passed. 

“T hope so; do not go away without having seen Gertrude.” 

When Monsoreau opened his eyes again, he saw Diana 
standing at his bed-side. 

“Ah! it is you, madame,” said he, “to-night we leave for 
Paris.” 

Rémy cried out in horror, but Monsoreau paid no attention. 
“Can you think of such a thing, with your wound ?” said 
Diana, quietly. 

‘“‘ Madame, I would rather die than suffer, and were I to die 
on the road, we start to-night.” 

“ As you please, monsieur.” 

‘’Then make your preparations.” 

“My preparations are soon made, but may I ask the reason 
of this sudden determination ?” 

“TJ will tell you, madame, when you have no more flowers to 
show to the prince, and when my doors are large enough to 
admit litters.” 

Diana bowed. 

“ But, madame ” said Rémy. 

““M. le Comte wishes it,” replied she, “ana my duty is to 
obey.” And she left the room. 

As the duke was making his adieux to the Baron de Méridor, 
Gertrude appeared, and said aloud to the duke that her mis- 
tress regretted that she could not have the honour of saying 
farewell to his highness; and softly to Bussy that Diana would 
set off for Paris that evening. As they went home again, the 
duke felt unwilling to leave Anjou now that Diana smiled on 
him. Therefore he said, “I have been reflecting, Bussy,” said 
he. 

“ On what, monseigneur ?” 

“That it is not wise to give in at once to my mother.” 

You are right, she thinks herself clever enough without that.” 





302 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


— 


‘But by dragging it on for a week, and giving fetes, and call: 
ing the nobility around us, she will see how strong we are.” 

“ Well reasoned, but still——” 

“TJ will stay here a week ; depend upon it I shall draw new 
concessions from the queen.” 

Bussy appeared to reflect. ‘‘ Well, monseigneur,” said he, 
“perhaps you are right, but the king, not knowing your inten- 
tions, may become annoyed ; he is very irascible.” 

“Vou are right, but I shall send some one to the king to 
announce my return in a week.” 

“Ves, but that some one will run great risks.” 

“Tf I change my mind, you mean.” 

“Ves, and in spite of your promise, you would do so if you 
thought it your interest.” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“Then they will send your messenger to the Bastille.” 

“T will give him a letter, and not let him know what he is 
carrying.” 

“On the contrary, give him no letter, and let him know.” 

“Then no one will go.” 

“Oh! I know some one.” 

“Who ?” 

eT, aniyself.” 

Vion? 

“Yes, I like difficult negotiations.” 

“Bussy, my dear Bussy, if you will do that, I shall be eternally 
grateful.” 

Bussy smiled. ‘The duke thought he hesitated. 

“And I will give you ten thousand crowns for your journey,” 
added he. 

, “Thanks, monseigneur, but these things cannot be paid 
or.’ 

“Then you will go ?” 

Wes)” 

it? When ?” 

“ Whenever you like.” 

“ The sooner the better.” 

“This evening if you wish it.” 

“ Dear Bussy.” 

“You know I would do anything for your highness. I will 
go to night ; you stay here and enjoy yourself, and get me some- 
thing good from the queen-mother.” 


ST. LUC REAPPEARS AT THE LOUVRE. 303 


“J will not forget.” 

Bussy then prepared to depart as soon as the signal arrived 
from Meridor. It did not come till the next morning, for the 
count had felt himself so feeble that he had been forced to 
take a night's rest But early in the morning a messenger 
came to announce to Bussy that the count had set off for 
Paris in a litter, followed on horseback by Rémy, Diana, and 
Gertrude. Bussy jumped on his horse, and took the same 
road. 


CHAPTER LXXI. 


WHAT TEMPER THE KING WAS IN WHEN ST. LUC REAPPEARED 
AT THE LOUVRE. 


Since the departure of Catherine, Henri, however confident in 
his ambassador, had thought only of arming himself against 
the attacks of his brother. He amused, or rather ennuyéd, 
himself by drawing up long lists of proscriptions, in which were 
inscribed in alphabetical order all who had not shown them- 
selves zealous for his cause. The lists became longer every 
day, and at the S and the L , that is to say, twice 
over, was inscribed the name of M. de St. Luc. Chicot, in the 
midst of all this, was, little by little, and man by man, enrolling 
an army for his master. One evening Chicot entered the room 
where the king sat at supper. 

“* What is it ?” asked the king, 

“M. de St. Luc.” 

“™M. de St. Luc ?” 

ess 

<A Paris 2” 

6c Yes.” 

** At the Louvre >” 

74 Yes.” 

The king rose, red and agitated. 

“What has he come for? The traitor !” 

** Who knows ?” 

“He comes, I am sure, as deputy from the states of Anjou 
—as an envoy from my rebellious brother. He makes use of 
the rebellion as a safe conduct to come here and insult me,” 








304 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“ Who knows ?” ; 7 

“ Or perhaps he comes to ask me for his property, of which 
I have kept back the revenues, which may have been rather an 
abuse of power, as, after all, he has committed no crime.” 

“Who knows P” ‘ 

“Ah, you repeat eternally the same thing; mort de ma vie! 
you tire my patience out with your eternal ‘Who knows?” _ 

‘Eh! mordieu! do you think you are very amusing with 
your eternal questions ?” ; 

At least you might reply something.” 

“ And what should I reply? Do you take me for an ancient 
oracle? It is you who are tiresome with your foolish sup- 
positions.” 

“ M. Chicot 2?” 

‘oN enti? 

“‘Chicot, my friend, you see my grief and you laugh at me. 

“ Do not have any grief.” 

“ But every one betrays me.” 

“Who knows? Ventre de biche! who knows ?” 

Henri went down to his cabinet, where, at the news of his 
return, a number of gentlemen had assembled, who were look- 
ing at St. Luc with evident distrust and animosity. He, however, 
seemed quite unmoved by this. He had brought his wife with 
him also, and she was seated, wrapped in her travelling-cloak, 
when the king entered in an excited state. 

“¢ Ah, monsieur, you here!” he cried. 

faves, tsire meplied SE lane, ‘ 

“Really, your presence at the Louvre surprises me.” 

“Sire, I am only surprised that, under the circumstances, 
your majesty did not expect me.” 

“What do you mean, monsieur 2?” 

“Sire, your majesty is in danger.” 

“Danger !” cried the courtiers. 

“Yes, gentlemen, a real, serious danger, in which the king 
has need of the smallest as well as the greatest of those de- 
voted to him ; therefore I come to lay at his feet my humble 
services.” 

“Ah!” said Chicot, “ you see, my son, that I was right to say, 
‘who knows.’ ” 

Henri did not reply at once ; he would not yield immediately. 
After a pause, he said, “ Monsieur, you have only done your 
duty ; your services are due to us,” 


a 








Sue LUC REAPPEARS AT THE LOUVRE. 305 


“The services of all the king’s subjects are due to him, I 
know, sire ; but in these times many people forget to pay their 
debts. I, sire, come to pay mine, happy that your majesty will 
receive me among the number of your creditors.” 

“Then,” said Henri, in a softer tone, “you return without 
any other motive than that which you state ; without any mis- 
sion, or safe-conduct ?” 

** Sire, I return simply and purely for that reason. Now, your 
majesty may throw me into the Bastille, or have me shot, but I 
shall have done my duty. Sire, Anjou is on fire ; Touraine is 
about to revolt ; Guienne is rising. M. le Duc d’Anjou is hard 
at work.” 

“ He is well supported, is he not ?” 

“Sire, M. de Bussy, firm as he is, cannot make your brother 
brave.” 

“* Ah! he trembles, then, the rebel.” 

“Tet me go and shake St. Luc’s hand,” said Chicot, ad- 
vancing. 

The king followed him, and going up to his old favourite, 
and laying his hand on his shoulder, said,— 

“You are welcome, St. Luc !” 

“Ah! sire,” cried St. Luc, kissing the king’s hand, “TI find 
again my beloved master.” 

““Ves, but you, my poor St. Luc, you have grown thin.” 

“Tt is with grief at having displeased your majesty,” said a 
feminine voice. Now, although the voice was soft and respect- 
ful, Henri frowned, for it was as distasteful to him as the noise 
of thunder was to Augustus. 

“Madame de St. Luc!” said he. “Ah! I forgot.” 

Jeanne threw herself at his feet. 

“Rise, madame,” said he, “I love all that bear the name of 
St. Luc.” Jeanne took his hand and kissed it, but he withdrew it 
quickly. 

“You must convert the king,” said Chicot to the young 
woman, “you are pretty enough for it.” 

But Henri turned his back to her, and passing his arm round 
St. Luc’s neck, said,— 

“Then we have made peace, St. Luc ?” 

“ Say rather, sire, that the pardon is granted.” 

“ Madame !” said Chicot, “a good wife should not leave her 
husband,” and he pushed her after the king and St. Luc. 


2Q 


306 CHICOT, THE JESTER, 


CHAPTER LXXII. 


IN WHICH WE MEET TWO IMPORTANT PERSONAGES WHOM WE 
HAVE LOST SIGHT OF FOR SOME TIME. 


THERE are two of the personages mentioned in this story, about 
whom the reader has the right to ask for information. We mean 
an enormous monk, with thick eyebrows and large lips, whose 
neck was diminishing every day; and a large donkey whose 
sides were gradually swelling out like aballoon. The monk re- 
sembled a hogshead ; and the ass was like a child’s cradle, sup- 
ported by four posts. 

The one inhabited a cell at St. Genevieve, and the other the 
stable at the same convent. ‘The one was called Gorenflot, and 
the other Panurge. Both were enjoying the most prosperous 
lot that ever fell to a monk and an ass. 

The monks surrounded their illustrious brother with cares 
and attentions, and Panurge fared well for his master’s sake. 

If a missionary arrived from foreign countries, or a secret 
legate from the Pope, they pointed out to him Brother Goren- 
flot, that double model of the church preaching and militant ; 
they showed Gorenflot in all his glory, that is to say, in the 
midst of a feast, seated at a table in which a hollow had been 
cut on purpose for his sacred stomach, and they related with a 
noble pride that Gorenflot consumed the rations of eight 
ordinary monks. And when the new comer had piously con- 
templated this spectacle, the prior would say, “‘ See how he eats! 
And if you had but heard his sermon one famous night, in 
which he offered to devote himself for the triumph of the faith. 
It is a mouth which speaks like that of St. Chrysostom, and 
swallows like that of Gargantua.” 

Every time that any one spoke of the sermon, Gorenflot 
sighed and said : 

“What a pity I did not write it !” 

‘‘A man like you has no need to write,” the prior would 
reply. ‘No, you speak from inspiration; you open your 
mouth, and the words of God flow from your lips.” 

“Do you think so ?” sighed Gorenfiot. 

However, Gorenflot was not perfectly happy. He, who at 
first thought his banishment from the convent an immense mis- 


TWO IMPORTANT PERSONAGES. 307 


fortune, discovered in his exile infinite joys before unknown to 
him. He sighed for liberty ; liberty with Chicot, the joyous 
companion, with Chicot, whom he loved without knowing why. 
Since his return to the convent, he had never been allowed to 
go out. He never attempted to combat this decision, but he 
grew sadder from day to day. The prior saw this, and at last 
said to him : 

““My dear brother, no one can fight against his vocation ; 
yours is to fight for the faith ; go then, fulfil your mission, only 
watch well over your precious life, and return for the great day.” 

“What great day?” 

“That of the Féte Dieu.” 

“Tta,” replied Gorenflot ; it was the only Latin word he 
knew, and he used it on all occasions. ‘But give me some 
money to bestow in alms in a Christian manner.” 

“You have your text, have you not, dear brother ?” 

“Yes, certainly.” 

““Confide it to me.” 

“Willingly, but to you alone; it is this: ‘The flail which 
threshes the corn.’ ” 

“Oh, magnificent ! sublime !” cried the prior. 

“ Now, my father, am I free ?” 

“Yes, my son, go and walk in the way of the Lord.” 

Gorenflot saddled Panurge, mounted him with the aid of two 
vigorous monks, and left the convent about seven in the even- 
ing. It was the same day on which St. Luc arrived at Paris 
from Méridor. 

Gorenflot, having passed through the Rue St. Etienne, was 
going to have turned to the right, when suddenly Panurge 
stopped ; a strong hand was laid on his croup. 

“* Who is there ?” cried Gorenflot, in terror. 

“A friend.” 

Gorenflot tried to turn, but he could not. 

“What do you want ?” said he. 

“ Will my venerable brother show me the way to the Corne 
d’Abondance ?” 

“ Morbleu ! it is M. Chicot,” cried Gorenflot, joyfully. 

“Just so; I was going to seek you at the convent, when I 
saw you come out, and followed you until we were alone. 
Ventre de biche ! how thin you are !” 

“But what are you carrying, M. Chicot ?” said the monk, 
“you appear laden.” 

20-2 


308 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Tt is some venison which I have stolen from the king.” 

“Dear M. Chicot ! and under the other arm?” 

“ A bottle of Cyprus wine sent by a king to my king.” 

“Tet me see !” 

“Tt is my wine, and I love it much ; do not you, brother ?” 

“Oh! oh!” cried Gorenflot, raising his eyes and hands to 
Heaven, and beginning to sing in a voice which shook the 
neighbouring windows. It was the first time he had sung for 
a month. 


CHAPTER LXXIIL 
DIANA’S SECOND JOURNEY TO PARIS. 


Let us leave the two friends entering the Corne d’Abondance, 
and return to the litter of M. Monsoreau and to Bussy, who set 
out with the intention of following them. Not only is it not 
difficult for a cavalier well mounted to overtake foot travellers, 
but it is difficult not to pass them. This happened to Bussy. 
It was the end of May, the heat was great, and about noon 
M. de Monsoreau wished to make a halt in a little wood, which 
was near the road, and as they had a horse laden with pro- 
visions, they remained there until the great heat of the day had 
gone by. During this time Bussy passed them, but he had not 
travelled, as we may imagine, without inquiring if a party on 
horseback, and a litter carried by peasants, had been seen. 
Until he had passed the village of Durtal, he had obtained the 
most satisfactory information, and, convinced that they were 
before him, had ridden on quickly. But he could see nothing 
of them, and suddenly all traces of them vanished, and on 
arriving at La Fléche he felt certain he must have passed them 
onthe road. Then he remembered the little wood, and doubted 
not that they had been resting there when he passed. He in- 
stalled himself at a little inn, which had the advantage of being 
opposite the principal hotel, where he doubted not that Monso- 
reau would stop; and he remained at the window watching. 
About four o’clock he saw a courier arrive, and half an hour 
afterwards the whole party. He waited till nine o’clock, and 
then he saw the courier set out again, and after him the litter, 
then Diana, Rémy, and Gertrude on horseback, He mounted - 


DIANA’S SECOND JOURNEY TO PARIS. 309 


his horse and followed them, keeping them in sight. Monso- 
reau scarcely allowed Diana to move from his side, but kept 
calling her every instant. After a little while, Bussy gave a 
long, shrill whistle, with which he had been in the habit of 
calling his servants at his hotel. Rémy recognised it in a 
moment. Diana started, and looked at the young man, who 
made an affirmative sign; then he came up to her and 
whispered : 

St is he!’ 

“Who is speaking to you, madame ?” said Monsoreau. 

‘To me, monsieur ?” 

“Ves, I saw a shadow pass close to you, and heard a 
voice.” 

“Tt is M. Rémy ; are you also jealous of him ?” 

“No, but I like people to speak out, it amuses me.” 

“There are some things which cannot be said aloud before 
M. le Comte, however,” said Gertrude, coming to the rescue. 

“Why not?” 

“‘ For two reasons ; firstly, because some would not interest 
you, and some would interest you too much.” 

“ And of which kind is what M. Rémy has just whispered ?” 

“© the latter.” 

“What did Rémy say to you, madame ?” 

“T said, M. le Comte, that if you excite yourself so much, you 
will be dead before we have gone a third of the way.” 

Monsoreau grew deadly pale. 

“He is expecting you behind,” whispered Rémy, again, 
“ride slowly, and he will overtake you.” 

Monsoreau, who heard a murmur, tried to rise and look back 
after Diana. 

* Another movement like that, M. le Comte, and you will 
bring on the bleeding again,” said Rémy. 

Diana turned and rode back a little way, while Rémy walked 
by the litter to occupy the count. A few seconds after, Bussy 
was by her side. 

“You see I follow you,” said he, after their first embrace. 

“Oh ! I shall be happy, if I know you are always so near to 
me. 

“But by day he will see us.” 

“No; by day you can ride afar off; it is only I who will see 
you, Louis. From the summit of some hill, at the turn of 
some road, your plume waving, your handkerchief fluttering in 


310 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


the breeze, would speak to me in your name, and tell me that 
you love me.” ; 

“Speak on, my beloved Diana ; you do not know what music 
I find in your voice.” 

“ And when we travel by night, which we shall often do, for 
Rémy has told him that the freshness of the evening is good 
for his wounds, then, as this evening, from time to time, I will 
stay behind, and we will tell each other, with a rapid pressure 
of the hands, all our thoughts of each other during the day.” 

“Qh! I love you! I love you!” murmured Bussy. “Oh! 
to see you, to press your hand, Diana.” 

Suddenly they heard a voice which made them both tremble, 
Diana with fear, and Bussy with anger. 

“Diana !” it cried, ‘‘ where are you? Answer me.” 

“Oh! itis he! I had forgotten him,” said Diana. “ Sweet 
dream, frightful awaking.” 

“Listen, Diana; we are together. Say one word, and 
nothing can separate us more; Diana, let us fly! What pre- 
vents us? Before us is happiness and liberty. One word, and 
we go; one word, and lost to him, you belong to me for ever.” 

“ And my father ?” 

“When he shall know how I love you ?” 

“Oh ! a father !” 

“Twill do nothing by violence, dear Diana; order, and I 
obey.” 

“Ttis our destiny, Bussy ; but be strong, and you shall see 
if I know how to love.” 

“Must we then separate 2?” 

“ Comtesse !” cried the voice, “reply, or, if I kill myself in 
doing it, I will jump from this infernal litter.” 

“ Adieu, Bussy, he will do as he says.” 

** You pity him ?” 

“ Jealous !” said Diana, with an adorable smile. 

Bussy let her go. 

In a minute she was by the litter, and found the count half 
fainting. 

“ Ah!” cried he, “where were you, madame?” 

“Where should I have been? Behind you.” 

“At my side, madame; do not leave me again.” 

From time to time this scene was renewed. They all hoped 
he would die with rage ; but he did not die: on the contrary, at 
the end of ten days, when they arrived at Paris, he was de- 


‘ 


DANJOU’S AMBASSADOR ARRIVES AT THE LOUVRE. 311 


cidedly better. During these ten days Diana had conquered 
all Bussy’s pride, and had persuaded him to come and visit 
Monsoreau, who always showed him much friendship. Rémy 
watched the husband and gave notes to the wife. 

“ Esculapius and Mercury,” said he ; “my functions accumu- 
late.” 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 


HOW THE AMBASSADOR OF THE DUC D’ ANJOU ARRIVED AT THE 
LOUVRE, AND THE RECEPTION HE MET WITH. 


As neither Catherine nor the Duc d’Anjou reappeared at the 
Louvre, the dissension between the brothers became apparently 
every day more and more certain. The king thought, “ No 
news, bad news.” The minions added, “ Frangois, badly coun- 
selled, has detained the queen-mother.” 

Badly counselled. In these words were comprised all the 
policy of this singular reign, and the three preceding ones. 
Badly counselled was Charles IX. when he authorised the 
massacre of St. Bartholomew. Badly counselled was Francois 
II. when he ordered the massacre at Amboise. Badly coun- 
selled had been Henri IJ. when he burned so many heretics 
and conspirators. And now they dared not say, “ Your brother 
has the family blood in his veins ; he wishes, like the rest, to 
dethrone or poison ; he would do to you what you did to your 
elder brother; what your elder brother did to his, what your 
mother has taught you to do to one another.” Therefore they 
said, “ Your brother is badly counselled.” 

Now, as only one person was able to counsel Frangois, it 
was against Bussy that the cry was raised, which became every 
day more and more furious. At last the news was spread that 
the duke had sent an ambassador. At this the king grew pale 
with anger, and the minions swore that he should be cut to 
pieces, and a piece sent to all the provinces of France as a 
specimen of the king’s anger. 

Chicot said nothing, but he reflected. Now the king thought 
much of Chicot’s refiections, and he questioned him about 
them. | 

“Sire,” replied he, “if your brother sends an ambassador, it 


3i2 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


is because he feels himself strong enough to do so; he who is 
prudence itself. Now, if he is strong, we must temporise with 
him. Let us respect his ambassador, and receive him with 
civility. That engages you to nothing. Do you remember how 
your brother embraced Admiral Coligny, who came as ambas- 
sador from the Huguenots ?” 

“Then you approve of the policy of my brother Charles ?” 

“Not so, but I cite a fact; and I say to you, do not hurt a 
poor devil of a herald, or ambassador; perhaps we may find 
the way to seize the master, the mover, the chief, the great Duc 
d’Anjou, with the three Guises ; and if you can shut them up in 
a place safer than the Louvre, do it.” 

“That is not so bad.” 

“Then why do you let all your friends bellow so?” 

** Bellow !” 

“Ves; I would say, roar, if they could be taken for lions, 
but they are more like bearded apes.” 

*“‘ Chicot, they are my friends.” 

“Friends ! I would lay any bet to make them all turn against 
you before to-morrow.” 

“Well, what do you advise >?” 

“To wait, my son. Half the wisdom of Solomon lies in 
that word. If an ambassador arrive, receive him courteously. 
And as to your brother, kill him if you can and like, but do not 
degrade him. He is a great knave, but he is a Valois ; besides, 
he can do that well enough for himself.” 

“Tt is true, Chicot.” ‘ 

“One more lesson that you owe me. Now let me sleep, 
Henri; for the last week I have been engaged in fuddling a 
monk.” 

— monk! the one of whom you have already spoken to ~ 
me 2 

af shy so. You promised him an abbey.” 

se >” 

“Pardieu ! it is the least you can do for him, after all he has 
done for you.” 

“He is then still devoted to me ?” 

“He adores you. Apropos, my son “4 

ss What ne 

“In three weeks it will be the Féte Dieu.” 

“Well !” 


“ Are we to have some pretty little procession ?” 








DANJOU’S AMBASSADOR ARRIVES AT THE LOUVRE. 313 


“‘T am the most Christian king, and it is my duty to set an 
example to my subjects.” 

“‘ And you will, as usual, stop at the four great convents of 
Paris ?” 

ewes.” 

“ At St. Genevieve ?” 

“Ves, that is the second I stop at.” 

* Good.” 

“Why do you ask ?” 

“Oh, nothing—I was curious. Now I know ail I want, so 
good-night, Henri !” 

But just as Chicot prepared to leave, a great noise was heard. 

“What is that noise ?” said the king. 

“Tt is ordained that I am not tosleep. Henri, you must get 
me a room in the town, or I must leave your service ; the Louvre 
becomes insupportable.” 

At this moment the captain of the guards entered, saying, 
“ Sire, it is an envoy from M. le Duc d’Anjou.” 

“ With a suite >” 

“No, sire, alone.’ 

“Then you must receive him doubly well, Henri; for he is a 
brave fellow.” 

“Well,” said the king, very pale, but trying to look calm, 
“Jet all my court assemble in the great hall.” 


CHAPTER LXXV. 
WHICH IS ONLY THE END OF THE PRECEDING ONE. 


Henri sat on his throne in the great hall, and around him was 
grouped an eager crowd. He looked pale and frowning. 

“ Sire,” said Quelus to the king, “do you know the name of 
the ambassador ?” 

“No; but what does it matter ?” 

“ Sire, it is M. de Bussy ; the insult is doubled.” 

“T see no insult,” said the king, with affected sang-froid. 
“Tet him enter,” continued he. Bussy, with his hat in his 
hand, and his head erect, advanced straight to the king, and 
waited, with his usual look of pride, to be interrogated. 


314 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 

“Vou here, M. de Bussy !” said the king; “I thought you 
were in Anjou.” ' ; 

“Sire, I was, but you see I have quitted it.” 

“ And what brings you here ?” 

“The desire of presenting my humble respects to your ma- 
jesty.” 

; The king and courtiers looked astonished ; they expected a 
different answer. 

“ And nothing else ?” said the king. 

“T will add, sire, the orders I received from the Duc d’Anjou 
to join his respects to mine.” 

“And the duke said nothing else 2” 

“Only that he was on the point of returning with the queen- 
mother, and wished me to apprise your majesty of the return of 
one of your most faithful subjects.” 

The king was choked with surprise. 

“Good morning, M. de Bussy,” said Chicot. 

Bussy turned, astonished to find a friend in that place. 

“Good day, M. Chicot ; I am delighted to see you.” 

“Ts that all you have to say, M. de Bussy ?” asked the king. 

“Ves, sire; anything that remains to be said, will be said by 
the duke himself.” 

The king rose and went away, and Bussy continued to con- 
verse with Chicot, until the king called to him. As soon as 
Bussy was alone, Quelus approached him. 

“Good morning, M. Quelus,” said Bussy graciously ; “ may I 
have the honour of asking how you are ?” y 

“Very bad.” 

“Oh, mon Dieu! what is the matter 2” 

“ Something annoys me infinitely.” 

“Something! And are you not powerful enough to get rid 
of it >” 

“Tt is not something, but some one, that M. Quelus means,” 
said Maugiron, advancing. 

“And whom I advise him to get rid of,” said Schomberg, 
coming forward on the other side. 

“Ah, M. de Schomberg ! I did not recognise you.” 

“Perhaps not ; is my face still blue ?” 

“Not so; you are very pale. Are you not well ?” 

“Yes, it is with anger.” 

“Oh! then you have also some one who annoys you 2” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 


THE END OF THE PRECEDING CHAPTER. 315 


*« And I also,” said Maugiron. 

“ Really, gentlemen, you all look very gloomy.” 

“Vou forget me,” said D’Epernon, planting himself before 
Bussy. 

“Pardon me, M. d’Epernon, you were behind the others, as 
usual, and I have so little the pleasure of knowing you, that it 
was not for me to speak first.” 

It was strange to see Bussy smiling and calm among those 
four furious faces, whose eyes spoke with so terrible an 
eloquence, that he must have been blind or stupid not to have 
understood their language. 

But Bussy never lost his smile. 

“Tt seems to me that there is an echo in this room,” said 
he quietly. 

“Took, gentlemen,” said Quelus, “how provincial M. de 
Bussy has become ; he has a beard, and no knot to his sword ; 
he has black boots and a gray hat.” 

“Tt is an observation that I was just making to myself, my 
dear sir; seeing you so well dressed, I said to myself, ‘ How 
much harm a few weeks’ absence does to a man; here am I, 
Louis de Clermont, forced to take a little Gascon gentleman as 
a model of taste.’ But let me pass; you are so near to me that 
you tread on my feet, and I feel it in spite of my boots.” 

And turning away, he advanced towards St. Luc, whom he 
saw approaching. 

“Incredible !” cried all the young men, “ we insulted him ; 
he took no notice.” 

“There is something in it,” said Quelus. 

“ Well !” said the king, advancing, “ what were you and M. 
de Bussy saying >” 

“Do you wish to know what M. de Bussy said, sire ?” 

“Yes, I am curious.” 

“Well, I trod on his foot, and insulted him, and he said 
nothing.” 

“What, gentlemen,” cried Henri, feigning anger, “you dared 
to insult a gentleman in the Louvre !” 

“ Alas ! yes, sire, and he said nothing.” 

“Well! I am going to the queen.” 

As the king went out of the great door, St. Luc re-entered by 
a side one, and advanced towards the four gentlemen. 

“Pardon, M. Quelus,” said he, “but do you still live in the 
Rue St. Honoré ?” 


316 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Yes, my dear friend; why do you ask ?” 

‘“‘T have two words to say to you.” 

AY? 

“ And you, M. de Schomberg ?” 

“Rue Béthisy,” said Schomberg, astonished. 

“‘ D’Epernon’s address I know.” 

“ Rue de Grenelle.” 

“You are my neighbour. And you, Maugiron Fi 

‘Near the Louvre. But I begin to understand ; you come 
from M. de Bussy.” 

“Never mind from whom I come; I have to speak to you, 
that is all.” 

“To all four of us ?” 

“c Yes.” 

“Then if you cannot speak here, let us all go to Schomberg’s ; 
it is close by.” 

290, De It” 

And the five gentlemen went out of the Louvre arm in arm. 





CHAPTER LXXVI. 


HOW M. DE ST. LUC ACQUITTED HIMSELF OF THE COMMISSION 
GIVEN TO HIM BY BUSSY. 


Ler us leave St. Luc a little while in Schomberg’s’ room, and 
see what had passed between him and Bussy. 

Once out of the hall, St. Luc had stopped, and looked 
anxiously at his friend. 

“Are you ill?” said he, “you are so pale; you look as 
though you were about to faint.” 

“No, I am only choking with anger.” 

“You do not surely mind those fellows ?” 

“You shall see.” 

“Come, Bussy, be calm.” 

“You are charming, really ; be calm, indeed ! if you had had 
half said to you that I have had, some one would have been 
dead before this.” 

“Well, what do you want ?” 


“You are my friend ; you have already given me a terrible 
proof of it.” 


ST, LUC ACQUITS HIMSELF OF HIS COMMISSION. 317 


“ Ah! my dear friend,” said St. Luc, who believed Monsoreau 
dead and buried, “do not thank me, it is not worth while ; 
certainly the thrust was a good one, and succeeded admirably, 
but it was the king who showed it me, when he kept me here a 
prisoner at the Louvre.” 

“ Dear friend.” 

“Never mind Monsoreau ; tell me about Diana. Was she 
pleased at last ? Does she pardon me ? When will the wedding 
take place P” 

“Oh! my dear friend, we must wait till Monsoreau is 
dead.” 

“What !” cried St. Luc, starting back as though he had put 
his foot on a pointed nail. 

““ Yes ; poppies are not such dangerous plants as you thought ; 
he did not die from his fall on them, but is alive and more 
furious than ever.” 

“ Really >?” 

“Ves, and he talks of nothing but vengeance, and of killing 
you on the first occasion.” 

“ And I have announced his death to every one ; he will find 
his heirs in mourning. But he shall not give me the lie; I shall 
meet him again, and if he escapes me a second time te 

“Calm yourself, my dear St. Luc; really, I am better off 
than you would think ; it is the duke whom he suspects, and of 
whom he is jealous. I am his dear Bussy—his precious friend. 
That is only natural, for it was that fool of a Rémy who cured 
him.” 

“ What an idiot he must have been !” 

“He has an idea that, as an honest man and a doctor, it is 
his duty to cure people. However, Monsoreau says he owes his 
life to me, and confides his wife to my care.” 

“Ah! I understand that this makes you wait more patiently 
for his death. However, I am quite thunderstruck at the 
news.” 

“ But now, niy friend, let us leave Monsoreau.” 

“ Ves, let us enjoy life while he is stillill ; but once he is well, 
I shall order myself a suit of mail, have new locks put on my 
doors, and you must ask the Duc d’Anjou if his mother has not 
given him some antidote against poison. Meanwhile, let us 
amuse ourselves.” 

“ Well, my dear friend, you see you have only rendered me 
half a service.” 





318 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Do you wish me to finish it?” 

“Yes, in another way.” 

«¢ Speak.” 

“ Are you great friends with those four gentleraen ?” 

“ Ma foi! we are something like cats and dogs in the sun; 
as long as we all get the heat, we agree, but if one of us took 
the warmth from another, then I do not answer for the con- 
quences.” 

“Well! will you go for me to M. Quelus, first ?” 

iN oplis 

“ And ask him what day it will please him that I should cut 
his throat, or he mine ?” 

“T will.” 

“Vou do not mind it ?” 

“Not the least in the world. I will go at once if you wish 
it.” 

“One moment; as you go, just call on M. Schomberg and 
make him the same proposal.” 

“Schomberg too? Diable, how you go on! Well, as you 
wish.” 

“Then, my dear St. Luc, as you are so amiable, go also to M. 
Maugiron, and ask him to join the party.” 

“What, three! Bussy, you cannot mean it. I hope that is 
all.” 

“No; from him, go to D’Epernon.” 

“Hour!” : 

“Even so, my dear friend; I need not recommend to a man 
like you to proceed with courtesy and politeness towards these 
gentlemen. Let the thing be done in gallant fashion.” 

“You shall be content, my friend. What are your con- 
ditions ?” 

“T make none; I accept theirs.” 

“Your arms P” 

“What they like.” 

“The day, place, and hour P” 

“Whatever suits them.” 

“ But——” 

_ “Oh! never mind such trifles, but do it quickly ; I will walk 
in the little garden of the Luxembourg ; you will find me there 
when you have executed your commission.” 

“ You will wait then ?” 

66 Yes.” 





ST. LUC ACQUITS HIMSELF OF HIS COMMISSION. 319 


“It may be long.” 

““T have time.” 

We know how St. Luc found the four young men, and ac- 
companied them to Schomberg’s house. St. Luc remained in 
the ar.techamber, waiting until, according to the etiquette of the 
day, the four young men were installed in the saloon ready to 
receive him. ‘Thenan usher came and saluted St. Luc, who 
followed him to the threshold of the saloon, where he announced 
M. d’Espinay de St. Luc. 

Schomberg then rose and saluted his visitor, who, to mark 
the character of the visit, instead of returning it, put on his hat. 
Schomberg then, turning towards Quelus, said,— 

““T have the honour to present to you M. Jacques de Levis, 
Comte de Quelus.” 

The two gentlemen bowed, and then the same ceremony was 
gone through with the others. This done, the four friends sat 
down, but St. Luc remained standing and said to Quelus,— 

“™M. le Comte, you have insulted M. le Comte Louis de 
Clermont d’Amboise, Seigneur de Bussy, who presents to you 
his compliments, and calls you to single combat on any day and 
hour, and with such arms as may please you. Do you ac- 
cept ?” 

“Certainly ; M. de Bussy does me much honour.” 

“ Your day and hour, M. le Comte ?” 

“ To-morrow morning at seven o’clock.” 

“Your arms ?” 

“ Rapier and dagger, if that suits M. de Bussy.” 

St. Luc bowed. Then he addressed the same questions to 
the others, and received the same answers. 

“Tf we all choose the same day and hour, M. de Bussy will 
be rather embarrassed,” said Schomberg. 

“Certainly,” replied St. Luc, “‘M. de Bussy may be em- 
barrassed, but he says that the circumstance would not be new 
to him, as it has already happened at the Tournelles.” 

“And he would fight us all four ?” 

SAIL four.” 

“Separately ?” 

“Separately, or at once.” 

The four young men looked at each other ; then Quelus, red 
with anger, said : 

“It is very fine of M. de Bussy, but however little we may 
be worth, we can each do our own work; we will accept, 


320 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


therefore, the count’s proposal, fighting separately, or rather, 
which will be still better, as we do not seek to assassinate a 
gallant man, chance shall decide which of us shall fight M. de 
Bussy.” 

' And the three others ?” 

“Oh! M. de Bussy has too many friends, and we too many 
enemies, for them to remain with folded arms. Do you agree to 
this, gentlemen ?” 

“Ves !” cried all. 

“Tf MM. Ribeirac, Antragues, ‘and Livarot would join the 
party, it would be complete.” 

“Gentlemen,” said St. Luc, “I will transmit your desires to 
M. de Bussy, and I believe I may promise that he is too cour- 
teous not to agree to your wishes. It therefore only remains for 
me to thank you in his name.” 

Then he took his leave, after throwing his purse to the four 
lackeys, whom he found outside, to drink to their master’s 
healths. 


CHAPTER LXXVII 


IN WHAT RESPECT M. DE ST. LUC WAS MORE CIVILISED THAN 
M. DE BUSSY, THE LESSONS WHICH HE GAVE HIM, AND THE 
USE WHICH M. DE BUSSY MADE OF THEM. 


Sr. Luc returned, proud of having executed his commission so 
well. Bussy thanked him, but looked sad, which was not natural 
to him. 

“‘ Have I done badly ?” said St. Luc. 

“Ma foi, my dear friend, I only regret you did not say, ‘at 
once? 

“Why ! what is the hurry ?” 

“‘T wish to die as soon as possible.” 

St. Luc looked at him in astonishment. 

“Die ! at your age, with your name, and Diana!” 

“Ves, I shall kill them, I know, but I shall receive some 
good blow which will tranquillise me for ever.” 

“What black ideas, Bussy !” 
_ “A husband whom I thought dead, and who has returned to 
life ; a wife who can scarcely quit the bedside of the pretended 


ST LUC IS MORE CIVILISED THAN DE BUSSY. 321 


dying man. Not to see her, smile on her, touch her hand. 
Mon Dieu !——” 

St. Luc interrupted him with a burst of laughter. “Oh! cried 
he, “the innocent man. Why, no lover can be more fortunate 
than you.” 

* Prove that to me.” 

“‘ Vou are the friend of M. de Monsoreau.” 

“Ves, I am ashamed to say, he calls me his friend.” 

“ Well! be his friend.” 

“Oh! and abuse this title !” 

“Ts he really your friend ?” 

‘ He says so.” 

“No; for he makes you unhappy. Now the end of friend- 
ship is to make one another happy. At least, so his majesty 
says, and he is learned in friendship. So, if he makes you 
unhappy, he is not your friend; therefore you may treat him 
either asa stranger, and take his wife from him, or as an enemy, 
and kill him if he murmurs.” 

“Tn fact, Ihate him. But do you not think he loves me?” 

“TDiable! Take away his wife and see.” 

“‘T must continue to be a man of honour.” 

* And let Madame de Monsoreau cure her husband both 
physically and morally. For it is certain that if you get your- 
self killed, she will attach herself to the only man who remains 
to her.” 

Bussy frowned. 

“ But,” added St. Luc, “here is my wife; she always gives 
good advice. She has been picking herself a bouquet in the 
gardens of the queen-mother, and will be in a good humour. 
Listen to her; she speaks gold.” 

Jeanne arrived radiant, full of happiness and fun. Bussy 
saluted her in a friendly manner, and she held out her hand to 
him, saying, with a smile, “ How go on the love affairs ?” 

““ They are dying.” 

“They are wounded and fainting ; perhaps you can restore 
them, Jeanne >?” 

“Let me see; show me the wound.” 

“In two words, this is it: M. de Bussy does not like smiling 
on M. de Monsoreau, and he thinks of retiring.” 

** And leaving Diana to him ?” 

“Oh! madame, St. Luc does not tell you that I wish to 
die.” 

2I 


322 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


‘Poor Diana!” murmured Jeanne, “ decidedly men are un- 
grateful.” : 

“Good! this is the conclusion my wife draws.” 

“T, ungrateful !” cried Bussy, “because I fear to render my 
love vile, by practising a disgraceful hypocrisy ?” 

‘‘Oh! monsieur, that is only a pretext. If you were really 
in love, you would fear but one thing—not to be loved in 
return.” 

“But, madame, there are sacrifices—— 

“Not another word. Confess that you love Diana no longer ; 
it will be more worthy of a gallant man.” 

Bussy grew pale. 

“You do not dare to tell her; well, I will.” 

“ Madame! madame!” 

“You are rich, you men, with your sacrifices. And does she 
make none? What! expose herself to be massacred by that 
tiger of a Monsoreau, preserve her position only by employing a 
strength of will of which Samson or Hannibal would have been 
incapable. Oh! I swear, Diana is sublime, I could not do 2 
quarter of what she does every day.” 

“Thank you !” said St. Luc. 

“‘ And he hesitates !” continued she, ‘he does not fall on his 
knees and say his mea culpa.” 

“You are right,” said Bussy, ‘I am but a man, that is to 
say, an imperfect creature, inferior to the most commonplace 
woman.” 

“Tt is lucky you are convinced of it.” 

‘What do you order me ?” 

“To go at once and pay a visit 2 

“To M. de Monsoreau ?” 

“Who speaks of him ?—to Diana.” 

“ But he never leaves her.” 

“When you went so often to see Madame de Barbezieux, 
had she not always near her that great ape who bit you because 
he was jealous ?” 

Bussy began to laugh, and St. Luc and Jeanne followed his 
example. 

“Madare,” then said Bussy, “I am going to M. de Monso- 
reau’s house ; adieu.” 

He went there, and found the count in bed ; he was delighted 
to see him, and told him that Rémy promised that his wound 
would be cured in three weeks. Bussy recounted to him the 


”? 


/ 





THE PRECAUTIONS OF M. DE MONSOREAU. 323 


commission with which he had been charged, and his visit to 
the court. 

“The duke has still projects on foot, has he not ?” 

“T believe so.” 

“Do not compromise yourself for that bad man; I know 
him: he is perfidious, and will not hesitate to betray you.” 

“*T know it.” 

“ You are my friend, and I wish to put you on your guard.” 

“You must sleep after the dressing of your wound,” said 
Rémy. 

“Yes, my dear doctor. My friend, take a turn in the garden 
with Madame de Monsoreau.” 

“T am at your orders,” replied Bussy. 


CHAPTER LXXVIII. 
THE PRECAUTIONS OF M. DE MONSOREAU. 


Sr. Luc was right, and Jeanne was right, and Bussy soon 
acknowledged it. As for Diana, she gave herself up to the two 
instincts that Figaro recognises as inborn in mankind, to love 
and to deceive. M. de Monsoreau grew better and better. 
He had escaped from fever, thanks to the application of cold 
water, that new remedy which Providence had discovered to 
Ambrose Paré, when all at once he received a great shock at 
hearing of the arrival in Paris of the duke with the queen- 
mother. The day after his arrival, the duke, under the pretext 
of asking after him, presented himself at his hotei, and it was 
impossible to close his door against a prince who showed so 
much interest in him. M. de Monsoreau therefore was obliged 
to receive the prince, who was most amiable to him and to his 
wife. As soon as he was gone, M. de Monsoreau took Diana’s 
arm, and in spite of Rémy’s remonstrances walked three times 
round his arm-chair; and, from his satisfied air, Diana was sure 
he was meditating on some project. 

The next day the duke came again, and this time Monsoreau 
walked round his room. That evening Diana warned Bussy 
that her husband had certainly some project in his head. A 
few minutes after, when Bussy and Monsoreau were alone, 
When I think,” said Monsoreau, “ that this prince, who smiles 

2I—2 


324 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


on me, is my mortal enemy, and tried to have me assassinated 
by M. de St. Luc e 

“Oh, assassinated! take care, M. le Comte. St. Luc is a 
gentleman, and you confess yourself that you provoked him, 
drew the sword first, and received your wound in fair fight.” 

“Certainly ; but it is not the less true that he obeyed the 
wishes of M. d’Anjou.” 

“ Listen ! I know M. de St. Luc, and I can assure you he is 
devoted to the king, and hates the duke. If your wound had 
come from Antragues, Livarot, or Ribeirac, it might be so; but 
not from St. Luc.” 

“You do not know,” replied Monsoreau, obstinate in his 
opinion. At last he was able to go down into the garden. 
“That will do,” said he ; “now we will move.” 

“Why move?” said Rémy. ‘The air is good here, and 
there is plenty of amusement.” 

“Too much; M. d’Anjou fatigues me with his visits, and he 
always brings with him a crowd of gentlemen, and the noise of 
their spurs destroys my nerves.” 

“But where are you going ?” 

“T have ordered them to get ready my little house at the 
Tournelles.” 

Bussy and Diana exchanged a look of loving remembrance. 

“‘ What, that little place ?” cried Rémy, imprudently. 

“What! do you know it ?” 

“Who does not know the houses of the chief huntsman ? 
particularly I, who lived in the Rue Beautrellis.” 

“Yes, yes, I will go there. It is a fortress, and one can see 
from the window, three hundred yards off, who is coming to 
visit you, and avoid them if you like, particularly when you are 
well !” 

Bussy bit his lips ; he feared a time might come when Mon- 
soreau might avoid him. Diana thought cf the time when she 
had seen Bussy in that house, lying fainting on the bed. 

“You cannot do it,” said Rémy. 

“Why not, if you please, monsieur ?” 

‘* Because the chief huntsman of France must hold receptions 
—must keep valets and equipages. Let him have a palace for 
his dogs, if he likes, but not a dog-kennel for himself.” 

“Tt is true, but i 

‘But I am the doctor of the mind as of the body; it is not 
your residence here that displeases you.” 








THE PRECAUTIONS OF M. DE MONSOREAU. 325 


¢ What then ?” 

“That of madame ; therefore send her away. 

‘‘ Separate >?” cried Monsoreau, fixing on Diana a look, more 
of anger than love. 

“Then give up your place—send in your resignation. I be- 
lieve it would be wise; if you do not do your duty, you will 
displease the king, and if you do——” 

“T will do anything but quit the countess,” said Monsoreau, 
with closely-shut teeth. As he spoke, they heard in the court- 
yard a noise of voices and horses’ feet. 

“ The duke again !” cried he. 

’ “Ves,” said Rémy. 

Immediately after the prince entered, and Monsoreau saw his 
first glance given to Diana. He brought to her, as a present, 
one of those masterpieces, of which the artists of that day were 
in the habit of producing two or three in the course of a life- 
time. It was a poniard, with a handle of chased gold. This 
handle was a smelling-bottle, and on the blade a chase was carved 
with admirable skill; horses, dogs, trees, game, and hunters, 
mingled together in an harmonious péle-méle, on this blade of 
azure and gold. 

“‘ Let me see,” cried Monsoreau, who feared there was a note 
hidden in the handle. 

The prince separated the two parts. ‘‘To you, who are a 
hunter,” said he, “I give the blade: to the countess, the 
handle. Good-morning, Bussy, you are then a friend of the 
count’s, now ?” 

Diana reddened, but Bussy said: 

“ Your highness forgets that you asked me to inquire after 
M. de Monsoreau.” 

cales? true.” 

The prince sat down, and began to talk to Diana. Ina few 
minutes he said, “‘ Count, it is-dreadfully warm in your rooms. 
Isee the countess is stifling. I will give her my arm for a turn in 
the garden.” 

The husband looked furious. 

“Give me an arm,” said he to Bussy, and he got up and fol- 
lowed his wife. 

“Ah!” said the duke, “it seems you are better.” 

*‘ Yes, monseigneur, and I hope soon to be able to accom- 
pany Madame de Monsoreau wherever she goes.” 

* Good ; but meanwhile, do not fatigue yourself.” 


326 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


Monsoreau was obliged to sit down, but he kept them in 
lew. 
ar? Count,” said he to Bussy, “ will you be amiable enough to 
escort Madame de Monsoreau this evening to my house at the 
Tournelles?” 

“You cannot do that, monsieur,” said Rémy. 

“ Why not 2” 

“Because M. d’Anjou would never forgive you if you helped 
to play him such a trick.” 

Bussy was about to cry, “What do I care?” but a glance 
from P.émy stopped him. 

“Rémy is right,” said Monsoreau, “it would injure you ; to- 
morrow I will go myself.” 

“ You will lose your place.” 

“Tt is possible ; but I shall keep my wife.” 

The next day they went to the old house ; Diana took her old 
room, with the bed of white and gold damask. A corridor only 
separated it from that of the count. Bussy tore his hair with 
rage. 


CHAPTER LXXIX. 
A VISIT TO THE HOUSE AT LES TOURNELLES. 


Tue duke became more and more in love with Diana, as she 
seemed always to escape him, and with his love for her, his 
hatred of Monsoreau increased. On the other side he had 
not renounced his political hopes, but had recommenced his 
underhand machinations. The moment was favourable, for 
many wavering conspirators had been encouraged by the kind 
of triumph which the weakness of the king, and the cunning 
of Catherine, had given to the duke; however, he no longer 
confided his projects to Bussy, and showed him only a hypo- 
critical friendship. He was vaguely uneasy at seeing him at 
Monsoreau’s house, and envious of the confidence that Mon- 
soreau, so suspicious of himself, placed inhim. He was fright- 
ened also at the joy and happiness which shone in Diana’s face. 
He knew that flowers only bloom in the light of the sun, and 
women in that of love. She was visibly happy, and this an- 
noyed him. Determined to use his power, both for love and 


A VISIT TO THE HOUSE AT LES TOURNELLES. 325 


vengeance, he thought it would be absurd to be stayed in this 
purpose by such ridiculous obstacles as the jealousy of a hus- 
band, and the repugnance of a wife. One day he ordered his 
equipages, intending to visit Monsoreau. He was told that he 
had moved to his house in the Rue St. Antoine. 

“‘ Let us go there,” said he to Bussy. Soon the place was in 
commotion at the arrival of the twenty-four handsome cavaliers, 
each with two lackeys, who formed the prince’s suite. Both 
Bussy and the prince knew the house well; they both went in, 
but while the prince entered the room, Bussy remained on the 
staircase. It resulted from this arrangement that the duke was 
received by Monsoreau alone, while Bussy was received by 
Diana, while Gertrude kept watch. Monsoreau, always pale, 
grew livid at sight of the prince. 

“ Monseigneur, here! really it is too much honour for my 
poor house !” cried he, with a visible irony. 

The prince smiled. ‘‘ Wherever a suffering friend goes, I 
follow him,” replied he. ‘ How are you ?” 

“Oh, much better; I can already walk about, and in a week 
I shall be quite well.” 

“Was it your doctor who prescribed for you the air of 
the Bastille?” asked the prince, with the most innocent air 
possible. 

‘Ves, monseigneur.” 

“Did you not like the Rue des Petits-Péres ?” 

“No, monseigneur; I had too much company there—they 
made too much noise.” 

“But you have no garden here.” 

*“*T did not like the garden.” 

The prince bit his lips. ‘Do you know, comte,” said he, 
“that many people are asking the king for your place ?” 

“On what pretext, monseigneur ?” 

“They say you are dead.” 

“Monseigneur, you can answer for it that I am not.” 

“T answer for nothing ; you bury yourself as though you were 
dead.” 

It was Monsoreau’s turn to bite his lips. 

“Well, then, I must lose my place,” said he. 

“ Really ?” 

““Yes ; there are things I prefer to it.” 

““You are very disinterested.” 

“It is my character, monseigneur.” 


328 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Then of course you will not mind the king’s knowing your 
character ?” 

“ Who will tell him ?” 

“Diable! if he asks me about you, I must repeat our con- 
versation,” 

“Ma foi! monseigneur, if all they say in Paris were reported 
to the king, his two ears would not be enough to listen with.” 

“What do they say at Paris, monsieur?” asked the prince 
sharply. 

Monsoreau tried to calm himself. ‘ How should a poor in- 
valid, as I am, know ?” said he. “If the king is angry at seeing 
his work badly done, he is wrong.” 

“‘ How so ?” 

“Because, doubtless, my accident proceeds, to some extent, 
from him.” 

“ Explain yourself.” 

“M. de St. Luc, who wounded me, is a dear friend of the 
king’s. It was the king who taught him the thrust by which he 
wounded me, and it might have been the king who prompted 
him.” 

“You are right; but still the king is the king.” 

“ Until he is so no longer.” 

The duke trembled. ‘“ Is not Madame de Monsoreau here ?” 
said he. 

‘“‘ Monseigneur, she is ill, or she would have come to present 
her respects to you.” 

“ll! poor woman! it must be grief at seeing you suffer.” 

“Yes, and the fatigue of moving.” 

“Let us hope it will be a short indisposition. You have so 
skilful a doctor.” 

“Ves, that dear Rémy “3 

“Why, he is Bussy’s doctor.” 

“He has lent him to me.” 

“You are, then, great friends >” 

‘He is my best, I might say my only, friend.” 

* Adieu, comte !” 

As the duke raised the tapestry, he fancied he saw the skirt 
of a dress disappear into the next room, and immediately Bussy 
appeared at his post in the middle of the corridor. Suspicion 
grew stronger with the duke. 

“We are going,” said he to Bussy, who ran downstairs without 
replying ; while the duke, left alone, tried to penetrate the cor- 





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mois LO THE HOUSE AT LES TOURNELLES. 320 


ridor where he had seen the silk dress vanish. But, turning, he 
saw that Monsoreau had followed, and was standing at the door. 

“Your highness mistakes your way,” said he. 

“True,” said the duke, “thank you.” And he went down 
with rage in his heart. When he returned home, Aurilly glided 
into his room. 

“‘Well,” said the duke, “I am baffled by the husband !” 

“ And, perhaps, also by the lover, monseigneur.” 

“What do you say?” 

rt hestruth.” 

“ Speak, then.” 

“T hope your highness will pardon me—it was in your service.” 

“T pardon you in advance. Go on.” 

“After your highness had gone upstairs, I watched under a 
shed in the courtyard.” 

“Ah! What did you see ?” 

“T saw a woman’s dress; I saw this woman lean forward, 
and then I heard the sound of a long and tender kiss.” 

“But who was the man ?” 

“ T cannot recognise arms.” 

“No, but you might gloves.” 

“Indeed, it seemed to me——’ 

“That you recognised them ?” 

“Tt was only a guess.” 

“ Never mind.” 

“Well, monseigneur, they looked like the gloves of M. de 
Bussy.” 

“ Buff, embroidered with gold, were they not ?” 

“Ves, monseigneur.” 

“Ah! Bussy! yes, it was Bussy. Oh, I was blind and yet 
not blind; but I could not believe in so much audacity.” 

“ But your highness must not believe it too lightly ; might 
there not have been a man hidden in her room ?” 

“Yes, doubtless, but Bussy, who was in the corridor, would 
have seen him.” 

po iar 1s. true. ” 

“* And then the gloves——” 

“Yes, and besides the kiss, I heard——-” 

“What ?” 

“Three words, ‘ Till to-morrow evening.’ ” 

“Oh! mon Dieu !” ; 

“So that, if you like, we can make sure,” 


I 


330 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


) 


“ Aurilly, we will go.” 

“ Your highness knows I am at your orders.” 

“ Ah! Bussy, a traitor! Bussy, the honest man—Bussy, who 
does not wish me to be King of France ;” and the duke, smiling 
with an infernal joy, dismissed Aurilly. 


CHAPTER LXXx, 
THE WATCHERS. 


Tue duke kept Bussy near him all day, so as not to lose sight 
of his movements. Bussy did not care, so that he had his 
evenings free. At ten o’clock he wrapped himself in his cloak, 
and with a rope ladder under his arm went towards the Bastille. 
The duke, who did not know that he had a ladder, and could 
not believe in any one walking alone at night through the 
streets of Paris, thought Bussy would certainly call at his hotel 
for a horse and a servant, and lost ten minutes in preparations, 
Durjng those ten minutes, Bussy, active and in love, had already 
gone three-fourths of the distance. He was lucky, as brave 
people generally are, and met with no accident by the way, and 
on arriving saw a light in the windows. It was the signal 
agreed on between him and Diana. He threw his ladder up to 
the balcony, it had six hooks to it, and was sure to fasten itself 
somewhere. At the noise, Diana put out her light and opened 
the window to fasten the ladder. The thing was done in a 
moment. Diana looked all around ; the street seemed deserted. 
Then she signed to Bussy to mount, and he was up in five 
seconds. The moment was happily chosen, for while he got 
in at the window, M. de Monsoreau, after having listened 
patiently for a quarter of an hour at his wife’s door, descended 
the stairs painfully, leaning on the arm of a confidential valet, 
and it so happened that he opened the street-door just as the 
ladder was drawn up, and the window closed. He looked 
around, but the streets were deserted. 

“You have been badly informed,” said he to the servant. 

“No, monsieur, I have just left the Hotel d’Anjou, and they 
told me that the duke had ordered two horses for this evening. 
But perhaps it was not to come here.” 

‘Where else should he go 2?” said Monsoreau, with a sombre 





THE WATCHERS. 332 


air. He, like all jealous persons, thought the whole world had 
nothing to do but to torment him. 

“Perhaps I should have done better to stay in her room,” 
murmured he. ‘“ But they probably have signals for corre- 
sponding ; she would have warned him of my presence, and I 
should have learned nothing. It is better to watch outside. 
Come, conduct me to the hiding-place, whence you say one caa 
see everything.” 

“Come, monsieur.” 

About twenty-five steps from the door was an enormous heap 
of stones belonging to demolished houses, and serving for forti- 
fications to the children of the neighbourhood when they played 
at battles. In the midst was a space, which could contain two 
people. The valet spread a cloak, on which Monsoreau sat 
down, while his servant sat at his feet,’ with a loaded musket 
placed beside him. Diana had prudently drawn her thick 
curtains, so that scarcely a ray of light showed through, to betray 
that there was life in this gloomy house. 

They had been watching about ten minutes, when two horses 
appeared at the end of the street. ‘The valet pointed to them. 

“*T see,” said Monsoreau. 

The two men got off their horses, and tied them up at the 
corner of the Hotel des Tournelles. 

“ Monseigneur,” said Aurilly, “I believe we have arrived too 
late; he must have gone straight from your hotel, and must 
have entered.” 

“Perhaps so; but if we did not see him go in, we can see 
him come out.” 

“Yes, but when ?” 

““ When we please.” 

“Would it be too curious to ask how you mean to manage ?” 

“Nothing is more easy ; we have but to knock at the door, 
and ask after M. de Monsoreau. Our lover will be frightened 
at the noise, and as you enter the house he will come out at the 
window, and I, who am hidden outside, shall see him.” 

* And Monsoreau ?” 

“What can he say? I am his friend, and was uneasy about 
him, as he looked so ill yesterday; nothing can be more 
simple.” 

“Tt is very ingenious, monseigneur.” 

“Do you hear what they say?” asked Monsoreau of his 
valet. 


332 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“No, monsieur, but we soon shall, for they are coming 
nearer.” : 

“ Monseigneur,” said Aurilly, “here is a heap of stones, 
which seems made on purpose for us.” 

“Yes, but wait a moment, perhaps we can see through the 
opening of the curtain.” And they stood for some minutes 
trying to find a place to peep through. Meanwhile, Monso- 
reau was boiling with impatience, and his hand approached the 
musket. 

“Oh! shall I suffer this ?”? murmured he, “shall I devour 
this affront also? No, my patience is worn out. Mordieu ! 
that I can neither sleep, nor wake, nor even suffer quietly, be- 
cause a shameful caprice has lodged in the idle brain of this 
miserable prince. No, I am not a complaisant valet ; Iam the 
Comte de Monsoreau, and if he comes near, on my word, I will 
blow his brains out. Light the match, René.” 

At this moment, just as the prince was about to seek his 
hiding-place, leaving his companion to knock at the door, 
Aurilly touched his arm. 

“Well, monsieur, what is it ?” asked the prince. 

“Come away, monseigneur, come.” 

‘Why so?” 

“Do you not see something shining there to the left 2” 

“IT see a spark among that heap of stones.” 

“Tt is the match of a musket, or arquebuse.” 

“Ah! who the devil can be in ambush there ?” 

“Some friend or servant of Bussy’s. Let us go and make a 
détour, and return another way. The servant will give the 
alarm, and we shall see Bussy come out of the window.” 

“You are right ; come ;” and they went to their horses 

“They are going,” said the valet. 

“Yes. Did you recognise them ?” 

“They seemed to me to be the prince and Aurilly.” 

“Just so. But I shall soon be more sure still.” 

“ What will monsieur do ?” 

Pome: 

Meanwhile, the duke and Aurilly turned into the Rue St. 
Catherine, intending to return by the boulevard of the Bas- 
tille. 

Monsoreau went in, and ordered his litter. 

What the duke had foreseen happened. At the noise that 
Monsoreau made, Bussy took the alarm, the light was extin- 


THE WATCHERS. 333 


guished, the ladder fixed, and Bussy, to his great regret, was 
obliged to fly, like Romeo, but without having, like him, seen 
the sun rise and heard the lark sing. Just as he touched the 
ground, and Diana had thrown him the ladder, the duke and 
Aurilly arrived at the corner of the Bastille. They saw a 
shadow suspended from Diana’s window, but this shadow dis- 
appeared almost instantaneously at the corner of the Rue St. 
Paul. 

“* Monsieur,” said.the valet to Monsoreau, “ we shall wake up 
the household.” 

“‘ What do I care ?” cried Monsoreau, furiously. ‘ I am master 
here, I believe, and I have at least the right to do what M. 
d’Anjou wished to do.” 

The litter was got ready, and, drawn by two stout horses, it was 
soon at the Hotel d’Anjou. 

The duke and Aurilly had so recently come in that their 
horses were not unsaddled. Monsoreau, who had the entrée, 
appeared on the threshold just as the duke, after having thrown 
his hat on a chair, was holding out his boots to a valet to pull 
off. A servant, preceding him by some steps, announced M. de 
Monsoreau. A thunderbolt breaking his windows, could not 
have astonished the prince more. 

“ M. de Monsoreau !” cried he, with an uneasiness he could 
not hide. 

“ Myself, monseigneur,” replied he, trying to repress his 
emotion, but the effort he made over himself was so violent 
that his legs failed him, and he fell on to a chair which stood 
near. 

* But you will kill yourself, my dear friend,” said the duke ; 
‘ ed are so pale, you look as though you were going to 
aint. 

“Oh, no; what I have to say to your highness is of too much 
importance ; I may faint afterwards.” 

** Speak, then, my dear comte.” 

** Not before your people, I suppose.” 

The duke dismissed every one. 

“ Vour highness has just come in ?” said Monsoreau. 

** As you see, comte.”’ 

“Tt is very imprudent of your highness to go by night in the 
streets.” 

“Who told you I had been in the streets ?” 

The dust on your clothes.” 


” 


334 CHICOT, THE JESTER: 


““M. de Monsoreau, have you another employment besides 
that of chief huntsman ?” 

“Ves, that of spy, monseigneur ; all the world follow that 

calling now, more or less, and I, like the rest.” 

“And what does this profession bring you, monsieur ?” 

“ Knowledge.” 

Tis curious.” 

“ Very curious.’ 

“ Well, tell me ie you have to say.” 

<eame tor that.” 

“You permit me to sit down ?” said the duke. 

“No irony, monseigneur, towards an old and faithful servant, 
who comes at this hour and in this state to do you a service. If 
I sat down, on my honour, it was because I could not stand.” 

“ A service ! to do me a service ?” 

SOY ese" 

Speak, then.” 

“ Monseigneur, I come on the part of a great prince.” 

“From the king ?” 

“No; M. le Duc de Guise.” 

; ‘¢ Ah ! that is quite a different thing. Approach, and speak 
ow. 


CHAPTER LXXXI. ‘ 


HOW M. LE DUC D’ANJOU SIGNED, AND, AFTER HAVING SIGNED, 
SPOKE. 


THERE was a moment’s silence. ‘Then the duke said: 

“Well, M. le Comte, what have you to say to me from the 
Duc de Guise ?” 

“Much, monseigneur.” 

“They have written to you 2” 

“No ; the duke writes no more since that strange disappear- 
ance of Nicholas David. ‘They have come to Paris.” 

“MM. de Guise are at Paris ?” 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

“‘T have not seen them.” 


“They are too prudent to expose themselves or your high- 
ness to any risk.” 


THE DUC D’ANJOU SIGNS, AND SPEAKS. 335 


3 


“ And I was not told !” 

‘T tell you now.” 

“What have they come for ?” 

“They come, monseigneur, to the rendezvous you gave 
them.” 

“That I gave them !” 

“ Doubtless ; on the day when your highness was arrested you 
received a letter from M. de Guise, and replied to it verbally, 
through me, that they were to come to Paris from the thirty- 
first of May to the second of June. It is now the thirty-first of 
May, and if your highness has forgotten them, they have not 
forgotten you.” 

Francois grew pale. So many events had passed since, that 
he had forgotten the rendezvous. ‘It is true,” said he, at 
length, “ but the relations which then existed between us exist 
no longer.” 

“If that be so, monseigneur, you would do well to tell them, 
for I believe they think differently.” 

“ How so?” 

“You, perhaps, think yourself free as regards them, but they 
feel bound to you.” 

‘A snare, my dear comte, in which a man does not let hine- 
self be taken twice.” 

« And where was monseigneur taken in a snare ?” 

“ Where ? at the Louvre, mordieu.” 

“ Was it the fault of MM. de Guise >?” 

“T do not say so, but they never assisted me to escape.” 

“Tt would have been difficult ; they were flying them- 
selves.” 

e tiessrttue,” 

“ But when you were in Anjou, did they not charge me to 
tell you that you could always count on them, as they on you, 
and that the day you marched on Paris, they would do the 
same ?” 

“Tt is true, but I did not march on Paris.” 

* You are here.” 

“Yes ; but as my brother’s ally.” 

“ Monseigneur will permit me to observe that he is more than 
the ally of the Guises.” 

“What then ?” 

“Their accomplice.” 

The duke bit his lips. 


336 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“And you say they charged you to announce their arrival to 
Mier 

“They did me that honour.” 

‘“‘But they did not tell you the motive of their return ?” 

“They told me all, knowing me to be the confidant of your 
highness.” 

“Then they have projects. What are they ?” 

“ The same always.” 

“ And they think them practicable ?” 

“They look upon them as certain.” 

“ And these projects have for an aim—-— 

The duke stopped, not daring to finish. 

“To make you King of France; yes, monseigneur.” 

The duke felt the flush of joy mount to his face. 

‘‘ But,” said he, “is the moment favourable ?” 

“Your wisdom must decide.” 

* My wisdom ?” 

“Yes, the facts cannot be contradicted. The nomination of 
the king as head of the League was only a comedy, quickly 
seen through and appreciated. Now the reaction has com- 
menced, and the entire state is rising against the tyranny of 
the king and his creatures. Sermons are a call to arms, and 
churches are places where they curse the king, instead of pray- 
ing to God. The army trembles with impatience ; the bour- 
geois league together; our emissaries bring in nothing but 
signatures and new adherents to the League. In a word, the 


king’s reign touches on its close. Now, do you rénounce your 
former projects ?” 


The duke did not reply. 

“Monseigneur knows that he may speak frankly to me.” 

“‘T think,” said the duke, “that considering my brother has 
no children, that his health is uncertain, and that after him the 
crown will come naturally to me, there is no reason why I 
should compromise my name and my dignity, in a useless 
struggle, and try to take, with danger, what will come to me 
in due course.” 

“Your highness is in error; your brother’s throne will only 
come to you if you take it. MM. de Guise cannot be kings 
themselves, but they will only allow to reign a king of their own 
making, a king whom they substitute for the reigning one. 


They count on your highness, but if you refuse, they will seek 
another.” 


THE DUC DANJOU SIGNS, AND SPEAKS. 337 


“ And who will dare to seat himself on the throne of Charle- 
magne ?” 

“A Bourbon instead of a Valois, monseigneur; a son of St. 
Louis, instead of a son of St. Louis.” 

“The King of Navarre ?” 

“Why not? He is young, and brave.” 

“ He is a Huguenot.” 

‘©Was he not converted at the St. Bartholomew ?” 

“Yes, and he abjured afterwards.” 

“Oh, monseigneur, what he did for his wife, he will do again 
for the crown.” 

“They think, then, that I will yield my rights without a 
struggle.” 

‘The case is provided for.” 

‘I will fight.” 

“ They are men of war.” 

«J will put myself at the head of the League.” 

“ They are the soul of it.” 

‘J will join my brother.” 

“Your brother will be dead.” 

‘¢T will call the kings of Europe to my aid.” 

“They will think twice before making war on a people.” 

“‘ My party will stand by me.” 

“Your party, I believe, consists of M. de Bussy and myself.” 

“Then I am tied.” 

“Nearly so. You can do nothing without the Guises; with 
them, everything. Say the word, and you are king.” 

The duke walked about for a few minutes, in great agitation, 
then stopped, and said, “Go on, count.” 

“This, then, is the plan. In eight days the Féte Dieu will 
take place, and the king meditates on that day a great procession 
to the convents of Paris. There, the guards will remain at the 
door, the king will stop before each altar, kneel down, and say 
five paters and five aves.” 

*T know all that.” 

“ He will go to St. Genevieve—— 

Teves.” 

“ He will enter with a suite of five or six persons, and behind 
them, the doors will be closed.” 

“ And then a: 

“ Your highness knows the monks ~ho will do the honours 
of the Abbey to his majesty.” 


’ 





22 


338 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“They will be the same——” 

“ Who were there when your highness was crowned.” 

“They will dare to lay hands on the Lord’s anointed 2” 

“Oh! to shave him, only.” 

“ They will never dare to do that to a king.” 

“ He will not be a king then.” 

“ How so ?” 

“‘ Have you never heard of a holy man who preaches sermons, 
and is going to perform miracles ?” 

‘“‘ Brother Gorenflot ?” 

Cust .so.” 

“The one who wished to preach the League with his arque- 
buse on his shoulder ?” 

“The same.” 

‘Well! they will conduct the king into his cell ; once there, 
he will be asked to sign his abdication, then, when he has 
signed, Madame de Montpensier will enter, scissors in hand. 
She wears them now, hanging to her side; they are charming 
scissors, made of gold, and admirably chased, to do him honour. 
You understand the rest. We announce to the people that the 
king, experiencing a holy repentance for his sins, has announced 
his intention of never more leaving the convent. If there are 
any who doubt, M. de Guise holds the army, M. le Cardinal 
the Church, and M. de Mayenne the bourgeois ; and with these 
three powers you can make the people believe what you like,” 

“ But they will accuse me of violence,” said the duke. 

“You need not be there.” 

“They will look on me as a usurper.” 

“‘Monseigneur forgets the abdication.” 

“The king will refuse.” 

“Tt seems that Brother Gorenflot is not only clever, but 
strong.” 

“‘The plan is then settled ?” 

<@uite.? 

“ And they do not fear that I shall denounce it ?” 

“No, monseigneur ; for in that case, they have another, not 
less sure.” 

oan yy 

Nese 

“And this one ?” 


“T do not know; they thought me too much your friend to 
trust me with it.” 





THE DUC D’ANJOU SIGNS, AND SPEAKS. 339 


“ Well, I yield, count. What must I do?” 

“ Approve.” 
<hdo.! 

“Words are not enough.” 

‘© What then ?” 

“ Writing.” 

“Tt is a folly to suppose I will ever consent to that.” 

“ And why not?” 

“Tf the conspiracy fail 

“Tt is just in case it should, that they ask for your signature.” 

“Then they wish to shelter themselves behind my name ?” 

« Just so.” 

“hen £ refuse,” 

“You cannot.” 

*‘T cannot refuse ?” 

ce No.” 

“* Are you mad ?” 

“To refuse is to betray.” 

‘¢ Let them think as they like ; at all events I will choose my 

own danger.” 

“ Monseigneur, you choose badly.” 

“J will risk it,” cried Francois, endeavouring to keep firm. 

“For your own interest I advise you not to do so.” 

“ But I shall compromise myself by signing.” 

“Tn refusing, you assassinate yourself.” 

Francois shuddered. 

“They would dare?” said he. 

“ They would dare anything, monseigneur. The conspirators 

have gone so far, that they must succeed at any cost.” 

The duke, with his usual indecision, felt terribly perplexed. 

“‘T will sign,” said he, at last. 

SWhen 2” 

“To-morrow.” 

“No, monseigneur ; if you sign, it must be at once.” 

“ But M. de Guise must draw up the agreement.” 

“Tt is already drawn—here it is;” and Monsoreau drew a 
aper from his pocket: it was a full adhesion to the scheme. 
he duke read it through, growing more and more pale as he 

did so. 

‘“‘ Here is the pen, monseigneur.” 

‘Then I must sign ?” 

‘Tf you wish to do so; no one forces you.’ 


” 





22—2 


340 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Ves, they do, since they menace me with assassination.” 
“JT do not menace you, monseigneur—I only warn you.” 
‘Give me the pen.” 

And, snatching it eagerly, he signed the paper. Monsoreau 
watched him with an eye full of hatred and hope, and no sooner 
had the duke finished than, exclaiming “ Ah !” he seized the 
paper, buttoned it into his doublet, and wrapped his cloak 
over it. : 

Francois looked at him with astonishment, for a flash of fero- 
cious joy played over his face. 

“ And now, monseigneur, be prudent,” said he. 

“How so ?” 

“Do not run about the streets with Aurilly, as you did just 
now.” 

“What do you mean ?” 

“T mean that, this evening, you pursued with your love a 
woman whom her husband adores, and whom he is jealous of, 
enough to kill any one who approaches her without permission.” 

“Ts it of you and your wife that you are speaking ?” 

“Yes, monseigneur. I have married Diana de Méridor ; she 
is mine, and no one shall have her while I live—not even a 
prince ; I swear it by my name and on this poniard !” and he 
touched with his poniard the breast of the prince, who started 
back. 

‘Monsieur, you menace me!” cried Francois, pale with rage. 

“No, monseigneur ; once more, I ‘say, I only warn you.” 

** Of what P” ‘ 

“That no one shall make love to my wife.” 

‘‘And I warn you that you are too late, and that some one 
makes love to her already.” 

Monsoreau uttered a terrible cry. “Is it you ?” cried he. 

“You are mad, count !” 

‘““No, I am not; prove your words.” 

‘““Who was hidden this evening, twenty steps from your door, 
with a musket ?” 

ce iL ” 

‘Well, comte, during that time there was a man with your 
wife.” 

“You saw him go in ?” 

‘‘T saw him come out.” 

** By the door >?” 

“No, by the window,” 


A PROMENADE AT THE TOURNELLES. 341 


‘Did you recognise him ?” 

Paes. 

“Name him, monseigneur, or I do not answer for myself.” 

The duke half smiled. 

“M. le Comte,” said he, “on my faith as a prince, on my 
soul, within a week I will tell you his name.” 

“ You swear it ?” 

Siswear it”? \— 

“Well, monseigneur, you have a week; but 
touching the paper in his breast. 

“ Come back in eight days.” 

“Good ! in eight days * shall have regained all my strength, 
ready for vengeance.” 





” said he, 


CHAPTER LXXXII. 
A PROMENADE AT THE TOURNELLES. 


In course of time the Angevin gentlemen had returned to Paris, 
although not with much confidence. They knew too well the 
king, his brother, and mother, to hope that all would terminate 
in a family embrace. ‘They returned, therefore, timidly, and 
glided into the town armed to the teeth, ready to fire on the 
least suspicion, and drew their swords fifty times before the 
Hotel d’Anjou on harmless bourgeois, who were guilty of no 
crime but of looking at them. ‘They presented themselves at 
the Louvre, magnificently dressed in silk, velvet, and embroidery. 
Henri III. would not receive them; they waited vainly in the 
gallery. It was MM. Quelus, Maugiron, Schomberg, and 
D’Epernon who came to announce this news to them, with 
great politeness, and expressing all the regrets in the world. 

“Ah, gentlemen,” said Antragues, “the news is sad, but, 
coming from your mouths, it loses half its bitterness.” 

“ Gentlemen,” said Schomberg, “ you are the flower of grace 
and courtesy. Would it please you to change the reception 
which you have missed into a little promenade ?” 

“ Ah! gentlemen, we were about to propose it.” 

“Where shall we go?” said Quelus. 

“ T knowa charming place near the Bastille,” said Schomberg. 

“We follow you, go on.” 


342 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


Then the eight gentlemen went out, arm in arm, talking gaily 
on different subjects, until Quelus said, “Here is a solitary 
place, with a good footing.” 

“Ma fol, yes.” 

“Well! we thought that you would one day accompany us 
here to meet M. de Bussy, who has invited us all here.” 

“Tt is true,” said Bussy. 

“ Do you accept ?” said Maugiron. 

“ Certainly ; we rejoice at such an honour.” 

“ That is well,” said Schomberg ; “shall we each choose an 
opponent ?” 

“No,” said Bussy, “that is not fair; let us trust to chance, 
and the first one that is free can join the others.” 

“Let us draw lots then,” said Quelus. 

“One moment,” said Bussy, “ first let us settle the rules of 
the game.” 

“They are simple ; we will fight till death ensues !” 

“Ves, but how ?” 

“ With sword and dagger.” 

“ On foot ?” 

“Oh, yes! on horseback one’s movements are not so free.” 

“Then, on foot.” 

“ What day ?” 

“ The soonest possible.” 

“No,” said D’Epernon, “I have a thousand things to settle 
and a will to make; I would rather wait five or six days.” 

So. beat. ‘ 

“Then draw lots.” 

“One moment! divide the ground into four compartments, 
each for a pair.” 

“‘Wellsaid.” 

“JT propose for number one, the long square between the 
chestnuts ; it is a fine place.” 

coerced.” 

“ But the sun? one would be turned to the east.” ; 

“No,” said Bussy, “ that is not fair ;? and he proposed anew 
position, which was agreed to. 

Schomberg and Ribeirac came first. They were the first 
pair ; Quelus and Antragues the second ; then Livarot and Mau- 
giron the third. D’Epernon, who saw himself left to Bussy, 
grew very pale. 


“Now, gentlemen,” said Bussy, ‘until the day of the com- 





CHICOT SLEEPS. 343 


bat, let us be friends. Will you accept a dinner at the Hotel 
Bussy ?” 

All agreed, and returned with Bussy to his hotel, where a 
sumptuous banquet united them till morning. 


CHAPTER LXXXIII. 
IN WHICH CHICOT SLEEPS. 


THE movements of the young men had been remarked by the 
king and Chicot. The king walked up and down, waiting im- 
patiently for his friends to return ; but Chicot followed them at 
a distance, and sav enough to be satisfied of their intentions. 
When he returned to the house he found the king, walking up 
and down, muttering. 

“Ah! my dear friend! do you know what has become of 
them ?” cried Henri. 

“Whom ? your minions ?” 

* Alas! yes, my poor friends.” 

“They must lie very low by this time.” 

“ Have they been killed ?” cried Henri; “are they dead ?” 

“ Dead, I fear 4 

“ And you laugh, wretch ?” 

“Oh! my son, dead drunk.” 

“Oh! Chicot, how you terrified me. But why do you 
calumniate these gentlemen ?” 

“On the contrary, I praise them.” 

“ Be serious, I beg; do you know that they went out with the 
Angevins ?” 

“ Of course, I know it.” 

“What was the result ?” 

“What I tell you ; that they are dead drunk.” 

“ But Bussy !” 

“He is intoxicating them; he is a dangerous man.” 

“‘Chicot, for pity’s sake 3 

“Ves; Bussy has given a dinner to your friends; how do 
you like that >” 

“Impossible! They are sworn enemies.” 

** Have you good legs ?” 

“What do you mean ?” 








344 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Will you go to the river ?” : 

“J would go to the end of the world to see such a thing.” 

“Well! go only to the Hotel Bussy.” 

“Will you accompany me?” 

“Thank you, I have just come from there.” 

“ But——” 

“Oh! no; I, who have seen, do not need to be convinced. 
Go, my son, go. You disquiet yourself about your friends; you 
first pity them as if they were dead, and when you hear they are 
not dead, you are uneasy still-——” 

“ You are intolerable, M. Chicot.” 

“Would you have preferred that they should each have had 
seven or eight wounds by a rapier ?” 

“] should like to bé able to depend on my friends.” 

“Oh! ventre de biche, depend upon me ; I am here, my son, 
only feed me. I want pheasant and truffles.” 

Henri and his only friend went to bed early, the king still 
sighing. 

The next day, at the petite levée of the king, MM. Quelus, 
Schomberg, Maugiron, and D’Epernon presented themselves. 
Chicot still slept. The king jumped from his bed in a fury, and 
tearing off the perfumed mask from his face, cried, “Go out 
from here.” 

The young men looked at each other in wonder. 

“ But, sire, we wished to say to your majesty rs 

“That you are no longer drunk, I suppose.” 

Chicot opened his eyes. 

“Your majesty is in error,” said Quelus, gravely. 

“And yet I have not drunk the wine of Anjou.” 

“Oh! I understand,” said Quelus, smiling. 

“What >?” 

“Tf your majesty will remain alone with us, we will tell 

ou.” 

“T hate drunkards and traitors.” 

“Sire,” cried three of the gentlemen. 

“Patience, gentlemen,” said Quelus, “his majesty has 
slept badly, and had unpleasant dreams. <A few words will 
set all right.” 

**Speak then, but be brief.” 

“Tt is possible, sire, but difficult.” 

“ Yes ; one turns long round certain accusations.” 

“No, sire, we go straight to it,” replied Queius, looking again 





/ 


CHICOT WAKES. 345 


at Chicot and the usher, as though to reiterate his request that 
they might be left alone. The king signed to the usher to 
leave the room, but Chicot said, ‘‘ Never mind me, I sleep tike 


a top,” and closing his eyes again, he began to snore with all his 
strength. 


CHAPTER LEXXXIV. 
WHERE CHICOT WAKES. 


“Your majesty,” said Quelus, “knows only half the business, 
and that the least interesting half. | Assuredly, we have all 
dined with M. de Bussy, and to the honour of his cook, be it 
said, dined well. ‘There was, above all, a certain wine from 
Austria or Hungary, which really appeared to me marvellous. 
But during the repast, or rather after it, we had the most 
serious and interesting conversation concerning your majesty’s 
affairs.” 

“You make the exordium very long.” 

** How talkative you are, Valois !” cried Chicot. 

“Oh! oh! M. Gascon,” said Henri, “if you do not sleep, 
you must leave the room.” 

‘“‘ Pardieu, it is you who keep me from sleeping, your tongue 
clacks so fast.” 

Quelus, seeing it was impossible to speak seriously, shrugged 
his shoulders, and rose in anger. 

“We were speaking of grave matters,” said he. 

“Grave matters ?” 

“Yes,” said D’Epernon, “if the lives of eight brave gentle- 
men are worth the trouble of your majesty’s attention.” 

“ What does it mean, my son ?” said Henri, placing his hand 
on Quelus’s shoulder. 

“‘Well, sire, the result of our conversation was, that royalty 
is menaced—weakened, that is to say, that all the world is con- 
spiring against you. Sire, you a great king, but you have no 
horizon before you; the nobility have raised so many barriers 
before your eyes, that you can see nothing, if it be not the still 
higher barriers that the people have raised. When, sire, in battle 
one battalion places itself like a menacing wall before another, 


346 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


what happens? Cowards look behind them, and seeing an 
open space, they fly; the brave lower their heads and rush on.” 

“Well, then forward !” cried the king, ‘‘mordieu ! am I not 
the first gentleman in my kingdom? Were they not great battles 
that I fought in my youth? Forward, then, gentlemen, and I 
will take the lead ; it is my custom in the mélée.” 

“Oh ! yes, sire,” cried the young men, with one voice. 

“ And,” said Quelus, “ against these ramparts which are clos- 
ing round your majesty, four men will march, sure to be ap- 
plauded by you, and glorified by posterity.” 

“What do you mean, Quelus ?” cried the king, with eyes in 
which joy was tempered by solicitude ; “who are these four 
men ?” 

“T, and these other gentlemen,” replied Quelus, with pride ; 
“we devote ourselves, sire.” 

“To what 2” 

“To your safety.” 

“ Against whom ?” 

“ Against your enemies.” 

“ Private enmities of young men ?” 

“Oh! sire, that is the expression of vulgar prejudice ; speak 
like a king, sire, not like a bourgeois. Do not profess to be- 
lieve that Maugiron detests Antragues, that Schomberg dislikes 
Livarot, that D’Epernon is jealous of Bussy, and that I hate 
Ribeirac. Oh! no. They are all young, and agreeable, and 
might love each other like brothers: it is not, therefore, a 
rivalry between man and man, which places the ‘swords in our 
hands ; it is the quarrel of France with Anjou, the dispute as 
to the rights of the populace against the prerogatives of the 
king. We present ourselves as champions of royalty in those 
lists, where we shall be me* by the champions of the League, 
and we came to say, ‘ Bless us, sire, smile on those who are 
going to die for you.’ Your blessing will, perhaps, give us the 
victory, your smile will make us die happy.” 

Henri, overcome with emotion, opened his arms to Quelus 
and the others. He united them in his heart ; and it was not 


a spectacle without interest, a picture without expression, but — 


a scene in which manly courage was allied to softer emotions, 
sanctified by devotion. Chicot look on, and his face, ordinarily 
indifferent or sarcastic, was not the least noble and eloquent of 
the six. 


“Ah!” cried the king, “I am proud to-day, not of being 


= aetna 


CHICOT WAKES. 347 


King of France, but of being your friend ; at the same time, as 
I know my own interests best, I will not accept a sacrifice, of 
which the result will deliver me up, if you fall, into the hands 
of my enemies. France is enough to make war on Anjou; I 
know my brother, the Guises, and the League, and have often 
conquered more dangerous foes.” 

“But, sire, soldiers do not reason thus, they never take ill 
luck into their calculations.” 

“Pardon me, Maugiron ; a soldier may act blindly, but the 
captain reflects.” 

“Reflect, then, sire, and let us act, who are only soldiers,” 
said Schomberg: “ besides, I know no ill luck; I am always 
successful.” 

“Friend, friend,” said the king, sadly, ‘I wish I could say 
as much. It is true, you are but twenty.” 

“Sire,” said Quelus, ‘on what day shall we meet MM. 
Bussy, Livarot, Antragues and Riberiac ?” 

“ Never ; I forbid it absolutely.” 

“Sire, excuse us, the rendezvous was arranged before the 
dinner, words were said which cannot be retracted.” 

‘Excuse me, monsieur,” said Henri, “ the king absolves from 
oaths and promises by saying, ‘I will, or I will not,’ for the 
king is all-powerful. Tell these gentlemen, therefore, that I 
have menaced you with all my anger if you come to blows; 
and that you may not doubt it yourselves, I swear to exile 
you, if. 4 

“Stop! sire; do not swear ; because, if for such a cause we 
have merited your anger, and this anger shows itself by exiling 
as, we will go into exile with joy, because, being no longer on 
your majesty’s territories, we can then keep our promises, and 
meet our adversaries.” 

“Tf these gentlemen approach you within range of an arque- 
buse, I will throw them all into the Bastille.” 
~ “Sire, if you do so we will all go barefooted, and with cords 
round our necks, to M. Testu, the governor, and pray to be in- 
carcerate with them.” 

“T will have them beheaded, then; I am king, I hope.” 

“We will cut our throats at the foot of their scaffold.” 

Henri kept silent for a long time; then, raising his eyes, 
said, “God will surely bless a cause defended by such noble 
hearts.” 

“Yes, they are noble hearts,” said Chicot, rising ; “do what 





348 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


they wish, and fix a day for their meeting. It is your duty 
my son.” 

‘Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu !” murmured Henri. 

“Sire, we pray you,” cried all the four gentlemen, bending 
their knees. 

“Well! so be it. Let us trust that God will give us the 
victory. But let us prepare for the conflict in a Christian 
manner. If I had time, I would send all your swords to Rome, 
that the Pope might bless them. But we have the shrine of 
St. Genevitve, which contains most precious relics: let us fast, 
and do penance, and keep holy the great day of the Féte Dieu, 
and then the next day——” 

“ Ah! sire, thanks; that is in eight days!” cried the young 
men. 

And they seized the hands of the king, who embraced them 
all once more, and, going into his oratory, melted into tears. 

“Our cartel is ready,” said Quelus, “ we have but to add the 
day and hour. Write, Maugiron, the day after the Féte Dieu. 
Here is a table.” 

“Tt is done,” said Maugiron, “now who will carry the 
letter 2” 

“JT will, if you please,” said Chicot, approaching, “ but I wish 
to give you a piece of advice. His majesty speaks of fasts and 
macerations. ‘That is all very well after the combat, but before, 
I prefer good nourishment, generous wine, and eight hours’ 
sleep every night.” 

“Bravo, Chicot !” 

“Adieu, my little lions,” replied the Gascon, “I go to the 
Hotel Bussy.” He went three steps and returned, and said, 
“Apropos, do not quit the king during the Féte Dieu; do not 
go to the country, any of you, but stay by the Louvre. Now, I 
will do your commission.” 


/ 


CHAPTER LXXXV. 
THE FETE DIEU. 
Durinc these eight days events were preparing themselves, as a 


tempest gathers in the heavens during the calm days of summer. 
Monsoreau had an attack of fever for twenty-four hours, then 





THE FETE DIEU. 349 


he rallied, and began to watch, himself; but as he discovered 
no one, he became more than ever convinced of the hypocrisy 
of the Duc d’Anjou, and of his bad intentions with regard to 
Diana. 

Bussy did not discontinue his visits by day, but, warned by 
Rémy of this constant watchfulness, came no more at night to 
the window. 

Chicot divided his time between the king, whom he watched 
like a child, and his friend Gorenflot, whom he had persuaded 
to return to his convent. He passed hours with him in his cell, 
always bringing with him large bottles in his pocket, and the 
report began to be spread that Gorenflot had nearly persuaded 
him to turn monk. 

As for the king, he gave constant lessons in fencing to his 
friends, teaching them new thrusts, and, above all, exercising 
D’Epernon, to whom fate had given so skilful an adversary, that 
he was visibly preoccupied by it. 

Any one walking in the streets of Paris at certain hours, 
might have met the strange monks, of whom our first chapters 
furnished some description, and who resembled troopers more 
than monks. ‘Then, to complete the picture, we must add that 
the Hotel de Guise had become at once mysterious and turbulent, 
the most peopled within and the most deserted without that can 
be imagined ; that meetings were held every night in the great 
hall, and with all the blinds and windows hermetically closed, 
and that these meetings were preceded by dinners, to which 
none but men were invited, and which were presided over by 
Madame de Montpensier. Of all these meetings, however, im- 
portant though they were, the police suspected nothing. On 
the morning of the great day, the weather was superb, and the 
flowers which filled the streets sent their perfumes through the 
air. Chicot, who for the last fortnight had slept in the king’s 
room, woke him early ; no one had yet entered the royal 
chamber. 

“Oh, Chicot !” cried the king, “you have woke me from one 
of the sweetest dreams I ever had in my life.” 

“What was it, my son ?” 

“J dreamed that Quelus had run Antragues through the 
body, and was swimming in the blood of his adversary. Let 
us go and pray that my dream may be realised. Call, Chicot, 
call.” 

“What do you want ?” 


350 CHICOT, TILE JESTiie. 


“My hair-cloth and my scourge.” 

“ Would you not prefer a good breakfast ?” 

“Pagan, would you go to hear mass on the Féte Dieu with 
a full stomach 2?” 

“‘ Even so.” 

“Call, 'Chicot.” 

‘“‘ Patience; it is scarcely eight o’clock, and you will have 
plenty of time to scourge yourself. Let us talk first. Con- 
verse with your friend; you will not repent it, Valois, on the 
faith of a Chicot.” 

“Well, talk ; but be quick.” 

“ How shall we divide our day, my son ?” 

“Into three parts.” 

“In honour of the Trinity ; very well, let me hear these three 
parts.” 

“ First, mass at St. Germain |’Auxerrois.” 

“Well 2” 

“ Return to the Louvre, for a collation.” 

“Very good.” 

“Then, a procession of penitents through the streets, stopping 
at the principal convents of Paris, beginning at the Jacobins and 
finishing at St. Genevieve, where I have promised the’ prior to 
stay till to-morrow in the cell of a saint, who will pray for the 
success of our arms,” 

“T know him.” 

“The saint ?” 

“Yes, perfectly.” ‘ 

“So much the better ; you shall accompany me, and we will 
pray together.” 

“Yes; make yourself easy.” 

“Then dress yourself. and come.” 

SWaitia little? 

Sa\Wihat tor 7 

“T have more to ask.” 

“Be quick, then, for time passes.” 

“What is the court to do ?” 

“ Follow me.” 

“ And your brother ?” 

“ Will accompany me.” 

“Your guard 2” 

“The French guard wait for me at the Louvre, and the Swiss 
at the door of the Abbey.” 


TE EVMEELE DUET, 


.o9) 
un 
- 


“That will do; now I know all.” 

“Then I may call ?” 

“Ves.” 

Henri struck on his gong. 

“The ceremony will be magnificent,” said Chicot. 

“ God will accept our homage, I hope.” 

“But tell me, Henri, before any one comes in, have you 
nothing else to say ‘to me ?” 

“No, I have given you all the details.” 

“‘Have you settled to sleep at St. Genevieve ?” 

** Doubtless.” 

“Well, my son, I do not like that part of the programme.” 

“ How so ?” 

“When we have dined I will tell you another plan that has 
occurred to me.” 

‘“¢ Well, I consent.” 

“Whether you consent or not, it will be all the same thing.” 

“What do you mean ?” 

“Hush! here are your valets.” 

As he spoke, the ushers opened the door, and the barber, 
perfumer, and valet of the king entered, and commenced to 
execute upon his majesty one of those toilets which we have 
described elsewhere. When the king was dressing, the Duc 
d’Anjou was announced. He was accompanied by M. de Mon- 
soreau, D’Epernon, and Aurilly. Henri, at the sight of Mon- 
soreau, still pale and looking more frightful than ever, could not 
repress a movement of surprise. 

“You have been wounded, comte, have you not?” said he. 

“6 Ves, sire.” 

“‘ At the chase, they told me.” 

“Ves, sire.” 

* But you are better now ?” 

**T am well.” 

“Sire,” said the duke, “would it please you that, after our 
devotions, M. de Monsoreau should go and prepare a chase for 
us in the woods of Compiegne ?” 

* But do you not know that to-morrow fs 

He was going to say, “ Four of your friends are to fight four 
of mine ;” but he stopped, for he remembered that it was a 
secret. 

“T know nothing,” said the duke ; “but if your majesty will 
inform me a 








352 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“J meant that, as I am to pass the night at the Abbey of St. 
Genevieve, I should perhaps not be ready for to-morrow; but 
let the count go; if it be not to-morrow, it shall be the day 
after.” 

“You hear 2” said the duke to Monsoreau. 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

At this moment Quelus and Schomberg entered. The king 
received them with open arms. 

Monsoreau said softly to the duke, “You exile me, mon- 
selgneur.” 

‘Ts it not your duty to prepare the chase for the king ?” 

“T understand—this is the last of the eight days fixed by 
your highness, and you prefer sending me to Compitgne to 
keeping your promise.” 

“No, on the contrary ; I keep my promise.” 

“ Explain yourself.” 

“ Your departure will be publicly known.” 

eaWelur’ 

“Well, do not go, but hide near your house ; then, believing 
you gone, the man you wish to know will come; the rest con- 
cerns yourself : I engage for no more.” 

‘Ah! if that be so——” 

“ You have my word.” 

“‘T have better than that, I have your signature.” 

“Oh, yes, mordieu! I know that.” 

Aurilly touched D’Epernon’s arm and said, “It is done; 
Bussy will not fight to-morrow.” . 

“Not fight !” 

“*T answer for it.” 

“Who will prevent it ?” 

“‘ Never mind that.” 

“Tf it be so, my dear sorcerer, there are one thousand crowns 
for you.” 

“Gentlemen,” said the king, who had finished his toilet, “to 
St. Germain |’Auxerrois.” 

‘“‘ And from there to St. Genevieve ?” asked the duke. 

“Certainly,” replied Henri, passing into the gallery where all 
his court were waiting for him 


AN ELUCIDATION. 353 


CHAPTER LXXXVL 
WHICH WILL ELUCIDATE THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER. 


THE evening before, M. de Monsoreau had returned to his 
home from the Hotel Guise, and had found Bussy there. 
Then, in his friendship for this brave gentleman, he had taken 
him aside, and said : 

“Will you permit me to give you a piece of advice ?” 

“Pray do.” 

“Tf I were you, I should leave Paris to-morrow.” 

“‘T ! and why so?” 

“ All that I can tell you is, that your absence may save you 
from great embarrassment.” 

“‘ How so ?” 

“ Are you ignorant of what is to take place to-morrow ?” 

“ Completely.” 

“On your honour ?” 

“On my word as a gentleman.” 

“« M. d’Anjou has confided nothing to you ?” 

“Nothing; M. d’Anjou confides nothing to me beyond what 
all the world knows.” 

“ Well! I, who am not the Duc d’Anjou, who love my friends 
for their own sakes, and not for mine, I will tell you, my dear 
count, that he is preparing for grave events to-morrow, and that 
the parties of Guise and Anjou meditate a stroke which may end 
in the fall of the king.” 

Bussy looked at M. de Monsoreau with suspicion, but his 
whole manner expressed so much sincerity that it was impossible 
to doubt him. 

“Count,” replied he, “my sword belongs to the Duc d’Anjou. 
The king, against whom I have done nothing, hates me, and 
has never let slip an occasion of doing or saying something 
wounding to me; and to-morrow I tell you—but you alone, re- 
member—I am about to risk my life to humiliate Henri de 
Valois in the person of his favourites.” 

“Then you are resolved to risk all the consequences of your 
adherence to the duke ?” 

yes: 

“ You know where it may lead you ?” 


354 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“T know where I will stop; whatever complaints I have 
against the king, I will never lift a hand against him ; but I will 
let others do what they like, and I will follow M. d’Anjou to 
protect him in case of need.” ear 

“My dear comte,” said Monsoreau, “the Duc d’Anjou Is 
perfidious and a traitor ; a coward, capable, from jealousy or 
fear, of sacrificing his most faithful servant—his most devoted 
friend ; abandon him, take 2 friend’s counsel, pass the day in 
your little house at Vincennes, go where you like, except to the 
procession of the Féte Dieu.” 

“But why do you follow the duke yourself?” 

“For reasons which concern my honour. I have need of 
him for a little while longer.” 

“Well! that is like me; for things which concern my honour 
I must follow the duke.” 

The Comte de Monsoreau pressed his hand, and they parted. 

The next morning Monsoreau announced to his wife his ap- 
proaching departure for Compiegne, and gave all the necessary 
orders. Diana heard the news with joy. She knew from her 
husband of the duel which was arranged between Bussy and 
D’Epernon, but had no fear for the result, and looked forward 
to it with pride. Bussy had presented himself in the morning 
to the Duc d’Anjou, who, seeing him so frank, loyal, and de- 
voted, felt some remorse ; but two things combated this return 
of good feeling—firstly, the great empire Bussy had over him, as 
every powerful mind has over a weak one, and which annoyed 
him ; and, secondly, the love of Bussy for Diana, which awoke 
all the tortures of jealousy in his heart. Monsoreau, it was true, 
inspired him with equal dislike and fear, but he thought, 
“Either Bussy will accompany me and aid my triumph, and 
then if I triumph, i do not care for Monsoreau, or Bussy will 
abandon me, and then I owe him nothing, and I will abandon 
him in return.” 

When they were in the church, the duke saw Rémy enter, and 
going up to his master, slide a note into his hand. 

“Tt is from her,” thought he; “she sends him word that her 
husband is leaving Paris.” 

Bussy put the note into his hat, opened, and read it; and the 
prince saw his face radiant with joy and love. 

The duke looked round ; if Monsoreau had been there, per- 
haps he would not have had patience to wait till the evening 
to denounce Bussy. 





AN ELUCIDATION. 355 


The mass over, they returned to the Louvre, where a 
collation waited for the king in his room, and for his gentle- 
men in the gallery. Onentering the Louvre, Bussy approached 
the duke. 

“Pardon, monseigneur,” said he, “but can I say two words 
to you ?” 

*¢ Are you in a hurry °” 

“Very much so.” 

“ Will it not do during the procession? we shall walk side by 
side.” 

“‘ Monseigneur must excuse me, but what I wished to ask is, 
that I need not accompany you.” 

“Why so?” 

“‘ Monseigneur, to-morrow is a great day, and I would wish to 
retire to-day to my little house at Vincennes.” 

“Then you do not join the procession with the king and 
court ?” 

“No, monseigneur, if you will excuse me.” 

“ Will you not rejoin me at St. Genevieve ?” 

“ Monseigneur, I wish to have the whole day to myself.” 

“But if anything should occur when I have need of my 
friends ?” . 

“ As monseigneur would only want me to draw my sword 
against my king, it is a double reason for excusing myself,” re- 
plied Bussy ; “ my sword is engaged against M. d’Epernon.” 

Monsoreau had told the duke the night before that he might 
reckon on Bussy; this change, therefore, must have been oc- 
casioned by Diana's note. 

“Then,” said the duke, “you abandon your chief and 
master ?” 

“ Monseigneur, he who is about to risk his life in a bloody 
duel, as ours will be, has but one master, and it is to Him my 
last devotions will be paid.” 

“You know that I am playing for a throne, and you leave 
me.” 

“ Monseigneur, I have worked enough for you ; I will work 
again to-morrow, do not ask me for more than my life.” 

“Tt is well !” said the duke, in a hollow voice, ‘“‘you are free ; 
go, M. de Bussy ” 

Bussy, without caring for the prince’s evident anger, ran 
down the staircase of the Louvre, and went rapidly to his own 
house. 

23—2 


356 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


The duke called Auriily. ‘Well! he has condemned him- 
self,” said he. 

“‘ Does he not follow you ?” 

= No? 

“He goes to the rendezvous ?” 

SoVes. 

*‘ Then it is for this evening ?” 

rT aS, 

‘Ts M. de Monsoreau warned ?” 

“Of the rendezvous—yes ; but not yet of the man.” 

“ Then you have decided to sacrifice the count ?” 

“T have determined to revenge myself; I fear now but one 
thing.” 

“‘ What is that ?” 

“That Monsoreau will trust to his strength, and that Bussy 
will escape him.” 

“‘Reassure yourself, monseigneur.” 

Why ?” 

“Ts M. de Bussy irrevocably condemned ?” 

“Yes, mordieu! A man who dictates to me—who takes — 
away from me her whom I was seeking for—who is a sort of 
lion, of whom I am less the mastes than the keeper—yes, 
Aurilly, he is condemned without mercy.” 

“Well, then, be easy, for if he escape Monsoreau, he will not 
escape from another.” 

“¢ And who is that ?” 

“Does your highness order me to name him ?” 

Ves al Go.” 

“Tt is M. d’Epernon.” 

“D’Epernon ! who was to fight him to-morrow?” 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

“ How is that ?” 

Aurilly was about to reply, when the duke was summoned ; 
for the king was at table, and had sent for his brother. 

“You shall tell me during the procession,” said the duke. 

We will now tell our readers what had passed between Aurilly 
and D’Epernon. They had long known each other, for Aurilly 
had taught D’Epernon to play on the lute, and, as he was fond 
of music, they were often together. He called upon Aurilly to 
tell him of his approaching ‘duel, which disquieted him not a 
little. Bravery was never one of D’Epernon’s prominent qualities, 
and he looked on a duel with Bussy as certain death, When 








AN ELUCIDATION. 357 


Aurilly heard it, he told D’Epernon that Bussy practised fencing 
every morning with an artist, lately arrived, who was said to have 
borrowed from all nations their best points, until he had be- 
come perfect. During this recital, D’Epernon grew livid with 
terror. 

“ Ah! IT am doomed,” said he. 

eWell?” 

“But it is absurd to go out with a man who is sure to kill 
me,” 

“You should have thought of that before making the en- 
gagement.” 

“ Peste! I will break the engagement.” 

“ He is a fool who gives up his life willingly at twenty-five. 
But, now I think of it——’” 

Well” 

““M. de Bussy is sure to kill me.” 

“T do not doubt it.” 

“ Then it will not be a duel, but an assassination.” 

“* Perhaps so.” 

“ And if it be, it is lawful to prevent an assassination by——” 

“cc By py 

‘¢ A murder.” 

“ Doubtless.” 

“What prevents me, since he wishes to kill me, from killing 
him first ?” 

“Oh, mon Dieu! nothing ; I thought of that myself.” 

“Tt is only natural.” 

‘Very natural.” 

“ Only, instead of killing him with my own hands, I will leave 
it to others.” 

“ That is to say, you will hire assassins ?” 

“Ma foi! yes, like M. de Guise for St. Megrim.” 

“Tt will cost you dear.” 

“T will give three thousand crowns.” 

“You will only get six men for that, when they know who 
they have to deal with.” 

“ Are not six enough P” 

““M. de Bussy would kill four before they touched him. Do 
you remember the fight in the Rue St. Antoine ?” 

“J will give six thousand ; if I do the thing, I will take care 
he does not escape.” 

“ Have you your men ?” 


358 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Oh, there are plenty of unoccupied men—soldiers of 
fortune.” 

“Very well ; but take care.” 

“Of what ?” 

“Tf they fail they will denounce you.” 

‘“‘T have the king to protect me.” 

“That will not hinder M. de Bussy from killing you.” 

“ That is true.” 

“ Should you like an auxiliary ?” 

“T should like anything which would aid me to get rid of 
him.” 

“Well, a certain enemy of your enemy is jealous.” 

“‘ And he is now laying a snare for him ?” 

Ah.” 

OWellir” 

“But he wants money; with your six thousand crowns he 
will take care of your affair as well as his own. You do not 
wish the honour of the thing to be yours, I suppose ?” 

“Mon Dieu! no; I only ask to remain in obscurity.” 

‘Send your men, and he will use them.” 

* But I must know who it is.” 

“*T will show you in the morning.” 

Where?” 

* At the Louvre.” 

“Then he is noble ?” 

AVES 

“ Aurilly, you shall have the six thousand crowns.” 

“Then it is settled ?” 

“ Trrevocably.” 

** At the Louvre, then ?” 

“Yes, at the Louvre.” 

We have seen in the preceding chapter how Aurilly said to 
D’Epernon, ‘‘ Be easy, Bussy will not fight to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER LXXXVILI. 
THE PROCESSION. 


As soon as the collation was over, the king had entered his 
room with Chicot, to put on his penitent’s robe and had come 


THE PROCESSION. 359 


out an instant after, with bare feet, a cord round his waist, and 
his hood over his face ; the courtiers had made the same toilet. 
The weather was magnificent, and the pavements were strewn 
with flowers ; an immense crowd lined the roads to the four 
places where the king was to stop. The clergy of St. Germain 
led the procession, and the Archbishop of Paris followed, 
carrying the holy sacrament ; between them walked young 
boys, shaking censers, and young girls scattering roses. Then 
came the king, followed by his four friends, barefooted and 
frocked like himself. 

The Duc d’Anjou followed in his ordinary dress, accompanied 
by his Angevins. Next came the principal courtiers, and then 
the bourgeois. It was one o’clock when they left the Louvre. 
Crillon and the French guards were about to follow, but the 
king signed to them to remain. It was near six in the evening 
before they arrived before the old abbey, where they saw the 
prior and the monks drawn up on the threshold to wait for his 
majesty. The Duc d’Anjou, a little before, had pleaded great 
fatigue, and had asked leave to retire to his hotel, which had 
been granted to him. His gentlemen had retired with him, 
as 1f to proclaim that they followed the duke and not the king, 
besides which, they did not wish to fatigue themselves before 
the morrow. At the door of the abbey the king dismissed his 
four favourites, that they also might take some repose. ‘The 
archbishop also, who had eaten nothing since morning, was drop- 
ping with fatigue, so the king took pity on him and on the 
other priests and dismissed them all. Then, turning to the prior, 
Joseph Foulon, “Here I am, my father,” said he; “I come, 
sinner as I am, to seek repose in your solitude.” 

The prior bowed, and the royal penitent mounted the steps 
of the abbey, striking his breast at each step, and the door was 
immediately closed behind him. 

“We will first,” said the prior, “conduct your majesty into 
the crypt, which we have ornamented in our best manner to do 
honour to the King of heaven and earth.” 

No sooner had the king passed through the sombre arcade, 
lined with monks, and turned the corner which led to the chapel, 
than twenty hoods were thrown into the air, and eyes were seen 
brilliant with joy and triumph. Certainly, they were not monkish 
or peaceful faces displayed, but bristling moustaches and em- 
browned skins, many scarred by wounds, and by the side of 
the proudest of all, who displayed the most celebrated scar, 


360 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


stood a woman covered with a frock, and looking triumphant 
and happy. ‘This woman, shaking a pair of golden scissors 
which hung by her side, cried : 

“ Ah! my brothers, at last we have the Valois 

“ Ma foi, sister, I believe so.” 

‘Not yet,” murmured the cardinal. 

““ How so ?” 

“‘Shall we have enough bourgeois guards to make head 
against Crillon and his guards ?” 

“We have better than bourgeois guards; and, believe me, 
there will not be a musket-shot exchanged.” 

‘‘ How so 2” said the duchess, “I should have liked a little 
disturbance.” 

“Well, sister, you will be deprived of it. When the king is 
taken he will cry out, but no one will answer ; then, by persua- 
sion or by violence, but without showing ourselves, we shall 
make him sign his abdication. ‘The news will soon spread 
through the city, and dispose in our favour both the bourgeois 
and the troops.” 

“The plan is good, and cannot fail,” said the duchess. 

“Tt is rather brutal,” said the Duc de Guise; “besides which, 
the king will refuse to sign the abdication. He is brave, and 
will rather die.” 

** Let him die, then.” 

“Not so,” replied the duke, firmly. ‘I will mount the 
throne of a prince who abdicates and is despised, but not of 
an assassinated man who is pitied. Besides, in your plans you 
forget M. le Duc d’Anjou, who will claim the crown.” 

“Let him claim, mordieu !” said Mayenne; “he shall be com- 
prised in his brother’s act of abdication. He is in connection 
with the Huguenots, and is unworthy to reign.” 

“Are you sure of that ?” 

‘‘Pardieu ! did he not escape from the Louvre by the aid of 
the King of Navarre?” 

“Well 2” 

“Then another clause in favour of our house shall follow; 
this clause shall make you lieutenant-general of the kingdom, 
from which to the throne is only a step.” 

“Yes, yes,” said the cardinal, “all that is settled; but it is 
probable that the French guards, to make sure that the abdica- 
tion Is a genuine one, and above all, a voluntary one, will insist 
upon seeing the king, and will force the gates of the abbey if 


? 


THE PROCESSION. 361 


they are not admitted. Crillon does not understand joking, and 
he is just the man to say to the king, ‘Sire, your life is in dan- 
ger ; but, before everything, let us save our honour.’” 

“ The general has taken his precautions. If it be necessary 
to sustain a siege, we have here eighty gentlemen, and I have 
distributed arms to a hundred monks. We could hold out for 
a month against the army ; besides, in case of danger, we have 
the cave to fly to with our prey.” 

‘What is the Duc d’Anjou doing ?” 

“In the hour of danger he has failed, as usual. He has gone 
home, no doubt, waiting for news of us, through Bussy or Mon- 
soreau.” 

“Mon Dieu! he should have been here ; not at home.” 

“You are wrong, brother,” said the cardinal; “the people 
and the nobles would have seen in it a snare to entrap the 
family. As you said just now, we must, above all things, avoid 
playing the part of usurper. We must inherit. By leaving the 
Duc d’Anjou free, and the queen-mother independent, no one 
will have anything to accuse us of. If we acted otherwise, we 
should have against us Bussy, and a hundred other dangerous 
swords.” 

“Bah! Bussy is going to fight against the king’s minions.” 

“ Pardieu ! he will kill them, and then he will join us,” said 
the Duc de Guise; “‘he is a superior man, and one whom I 
much esteem, and I will make him general of the army in Italy, 
where war is sure to break out.” 

“ And I,” said the duchess, “ if I become a widow, will marry 
him.” 

“ Who is near the king >” asked the duke. 

“The prior and Brother Gorenflot.” 

# 1s heim the cell P” 

“Oh, no! he will look first at the crypt and the relics.” 

At this moment a bell sounded. 

“The king is returning,” said the Duc de Guise; “let us 
become monks again.” And immediately the hoods covered 
ardent eyes and speaking scars, and twenty or thirty monks, 
conducted by the three brothers, went towards the crypt. 


362 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


CHAPTER LXXXVIIL 
CHICOT THE FIRST. 


Tue king visited the crypt, kissed the relics—often striking his 
breast, and murmuring the most doleful psalms. At last the 
prior said, “ Sire, will it please you now to depose your earthly 
crown at the feet of the eternal king ?” 

“Let us go!” said the king. 

They arrived at the cell, on the threshold of which stood 
Gorenflot, his eyes brilliant as carbuncles. 

Henri entered. “ Hic portus salutis !” murmured he. 

“ Ves,” replied Foulon. 

“Leave us!” said Gorenflot, with a majestic gesture; and 
immediately the door shut, and they were left alone. 

“Here you are, then, Herod! pagan! Nebuchadnezzar !” 
cried Gorenflot, suddenly. 

“Ts it to me you speak, my brother?” cried the king, in sur- 
prise. 

‘Ves, to you. Can one accuse you of anything so bad, that 
it is not true ?” 

“ My brother !” 

“ Bah! you have no brother here. I have long been medi- 
tating a discourse, and now you shall have it. I divide it into 
three heads. First, you are a tyrant ; second, you are a satyr ; 
third, you are dethroned.” 

“Dethroned !” 

“Neither more or less. This abbey is not like Poland, and 
you cannot fly.” 

“Ah! a snare !” 

“Oh, Valois, learn that a king is but a man.” 

“You are violent, my brother.” 

“‘Pardieu ! do you think we imprison you to flatter you ?” 

“ You abuse your religious calling.” 

“There is no religion.” 

“Oh, you are a saint, and say such things !” 

“*T have said it.” 

“You speak dreadfully, my brother.” 

“Come, no preaching ; are you ready ?” 

“To do what ?” 


CHICOT THE FIRST. 363 


“ To resign your crown ; I am charged to demand it of you.” 

“You are committing a mortal sin.” 

“Oh! I have right of absolution, and I absolve myself in 
advance. Come, renounce, Brother Valois.” 

“ Renounce what ?” : 

“The throne of France.” 

“ Rather death !” 

“Oh! then you shall die! Here is the prior returning. 
Decide !” 

“T have my guards—my friends; they will defend me.’ 

“Yes, but you will be killed first.” 

“ Teave me at least a little time for reflection.” 

**Not an instant !” 

“‘ Your zeal carries you away, brother,” said the prior, opening 
the door; and saying to the king, ‘‘ Your request is granted,” 
he shut it again. 

Henri fell into a profound reverie. ‘I accept the sacrifice,” 
he said, after the lapse of ten minutes. 

“Tt is done—he accepts !” cried Gorenflot. 

The king heard a murmur of joy and surprise. 

“‘ Read him the act,” said a voice, and a monk passed a paper 
to Gorenflot. 

Gorenflot read it to the king, who listened with his head 
buried in his hands. 

“Tf I refuse to sign ?” cried he, shedding tears. 

“Tt will be doubly your ruin,” said the Duc de Guise, from 
under his hood. ‘ Look on yourself as dead to the world, and 
do not force your subjects to shed the blood of a man who has 
been their king.” 

“‘T will not be forced.” 

“T feared so,” said the duke to his sister. ‘Then, turning to 
his brother, “ Let every one arm and prepare,” said he. 

“For what 2” cried the king, in a miserable tone. 

“ For anything.” 

The king’s despair redoubled. 

“ Corbleu !” cried Gorenflot, “I hated you before, Valois, but 
now I despise you! Sign, or you shall perish by my hand » 

“Have patience,” said the king; “let me pray to my divine 
Master for resignation.” 

“‘ He wishes to reflect again,” said Gorenflot. 

“ Give him till midnight,” said the cardinal. 

“Thanks, charitable Christian !” cried the king, 


364 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“ His brain is weak,” said the duke ; “we serve France by 
dethroning him.” j 

“J shall have great pleasure in clipping him!” said the 
duchess. as 

Suddenly a noise was heard outside, and soon they distin- 
guished blows struck on the door of the abbey, and Mayenne 
went to see what it was. ‘‘ My brothers,” said he, “there is a 
troop of armed men outside.” 

“They have come to seek him,” said the duchess. 

“The more reason that he should sign quickly.” 

“Sion, Valois, sign !” roared Gorenflot. 

“You gave me till midnight,” said the king, piteously. 

“ Ah! you hoped to be rescued.” 

“He shall die if he does not sign !” cried the duchess. 

Gorenflot offered him the pen. The noise outside redoubled. 

“ A new troop!” cried a monk; “ they are surrounding the 
abbey !” 

“The Swiss,” cried Foulon, “ are advancing on the right !” 

“ Well, we will defend ourselves; with such a hostage in our 
hands, we need not surrender.” 

“He has signed!” cried Gorenflot, tearing the paper from 
Henri, who buried his face in his hands. 

“Then you are king !” cried the cardinal to the duke ; “take 
the precious paper.” 

The king overturned the little lamp which alone lighted the 
scene, but the duke already held the parchment. 

‘What shall we do 2” said a monk. “Here is Crillon, with 
his guards, threatening to break in the doors !” 

“In the king’s name!” cried the powerful voice of Crillon. 

“There is no king !” cried Gorenflot through the window. 

“Who says that ?” cried Crillon. 

ot dhe OS 

“Break in the doors, Monsieur Crillon !” said, from outside, 
a voice which made the hair of all the monks, real and pretended, 
stand on end. 

“Yes, sire,” replied Crillon, giving a tremendous blow witha 
hatchet on the door. 

“What do you want ?” said the prior, going to the window. 

“Ah! it is you, M. Foulon,” replied the same voice, “ I want 
my jester, who is in one of your cells. I want Chicot, I am 
ennuyé at the Louvre.” 

“And I haye been much amused, my son,” said Chicot, 


INTEREST AND CAPITAL. 468 


throwing off his hood, and pushing his way through the crowd 
of monks, who recoiled, with a cry of terror. 

At this moment the Duc de Guise, advancing to a lamp, 
read the signature obtained with so much labour. It was 
= Chicot 1.” 

“Chicot !” cried he; “thousand devils !” 

“Let us fly !” said the cardinal, “ we are lost.” 

“Ah! cried Chicot, turning to Gorenflot, who was nearly 
fainting, and he began to strike him with the cord he had 
round his waist. 


CHAPTER LXXXIX. 
INTEREST AND CAPITAL. 


As the king spoke and the conspirators listened, they passed 
from astonishment to terror. Chicot I. relinquished his role of 
apparent terror, threw back his hood, crossed his arms, and, 
while Gorenflot fled at his utmost speed, sustained, firm and 
smiling, the first shock. It was a terrible moment, for the gen- 
tlemen, furious at the mystificaticn of which they had been the 
dupes, advanced menacingly on the Gascon. But this un- 
armed man, his breast covered only by his arms—this laughing 
face, stopped them still more than the remonstrance of the 
cardinal, who said to them that Chicot’s death could serve no 
end, but, on the contrary, would be terribly avenged by the 
king, who was the jester’s accomplice in this scene of terrible 
buffoonery. 

The result was, that daggers and rapiers were lowered before 
Chicot, who continued to laugh in their faces. 

However, the king’s menaces and Crillon’s blows became 
more vehement, and it was evident that the door could not long 
resist such an attack. Thus, after a moment’s deliberation, the 
Duc de Guise gave the order for retreat. This order made 
Chicot smile, for, during his nights with Gorenflot, he had ex- 
amined the cave and found out the door, of which he had 
informed the king, who had placed there Torquenot, lieutenant 
of the Swiss guards. It was then evident that the leaguers, 
one after another, were about to throw themselves into the trap. 
The cardinal made off first, followed by about twenty gentle- 


366 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


men. Then Chicot saw the duke pass with about the same 
number, and afterwards Mayenne. When Chicot saw him go 
he laughed outright. Ten minutes passed, during which he 
listened earnestly, thinking to hear the noise of the Leaguers 
sent back into the cave, but to his astonishment, the sound 
continued to go further and further off. His laugh began to 
change into oaths. Time passed, and the leaguers did not re- 
turn; had they seen that the door was guarded and found 
another way out? Chicot was about to rush from the cell, 
when all at once the door was obstructed by a mass which fell 
as his feet, and began to tear its hair. 

“Ah! wretch that Iam!” cried the monk. ‘Oh! my good 
M. Chicot, pardon me, pardon me !” 

How did Gorenflot, who went first, return now alone? was 
the question that presented itself to Chicot’s mind. 

“Oh! my good M. Chicot !” he continued to cry, “ pardon 
your unworthy friend, who repents at your knees.” 

“ But now is it you have not fled with the others ?” 

“Because the Lord in His anger has struck me with obesity, 
and I could not pass where the others did. Oh! unlucky 
stomach! Oh! miserable paunch !” cried the monk, striking 
with his two hands the part he apostrophised. “Ah! why am 
not I thin like you, M. Chicot ?” 

Chicot understood nothing of the lamentations of the monk. 

“But the others are flying, then?” cried he, in a voice of 
thunder 

‘““Pardieu ! what should they do? Wait to be hung? Oh! 
unlucky paunch !” 

“Silence, and answer me.” 

“ Interrogate me, M. Chicot; you have the right.” 

“ How are the others escaping ?” 

“* As fast as they can.” 

“So I imagine ; but where 2” 

“By the hole.” 

“Mordieu! what hole ?” 

“The hole in the cemetery cellar.” 

“Ts that what you call the cave 2” 

Oh! no; the door of that was guarded outside. ‘The 
great cardinal, just as he was about to open it, heard a Swiss 
say, ‘ Mich dwistel,’ which means, ‘I am thirsty.’” 

“Ventre de biche ! so then they took another way ?” 

“Yes, dear M. Chicot, they are getting out through the cellar.” 


* 


INTEREST AND CAPITAL. 367 


* How does that run ?” 

“From the crypt to the Porte St. Jacques.” 

“You lie; I should have seen them repass before this cell.” 

“No, dear M. Chicot ; they thought they had not time for 
that, so they are creeping out through the air-hole.” 

“What hole ?” 

“One which looks into the garden, and serves to light the 
cellar.” 

“So that you——” 

“T was too big, and could not pass, and they drew me back 
by my legs, because I intercepted the way for the others.” 

“Then he who is bigger than you ?” 

““He! who ?” 

“Oh! Holy Virgin, I promise you a dozen wax candles, if 
he also cannot pass.” 

“M. Chicot !” 

“Getup:” 

The monk raised himself from the ground as quickly as he 
could. 

“‘ Now lead me to the hole.” 

“Where you wish.” 

“Go on, then, wretch.” 

Gorenflot went on as fast as he was able, while Chicot in- 
dulged himself by giving him a few blows with the cord. They 
traversed the corridor, and descended into the garden. 

“ Here ! this way,” said Gorenflot. 

“Hold your tongue, and go on.” 

“ There it is,” and exhausted by his efforts, the monk sank 
on the grass, while Chicot, hearing groans, advanced, and saw 
something protruding through the hole. By the side of this 
something lay a frock and a sword. It was evident that the 
individual in the hole had taken off successively all the loose 
clothing which increased his size ; and yet, like Gorenflot, he 
was making useless efforts to get through. 

“’Mordieu ! ventrebleu ! sangdieu !” cried a stifled voice. “TI 
would rather pass through the midst of the guards. Do not 
pull so hard, my friends; I shall come through gradually ; I 
fee] that I advance, not quickly, it is true, but I do advance.” 

“ Ventre de biche !” murmured Chicot, “ it is M. de Mayenne. 
Holy Virgin, you have gained your candles.” ] 

And he made a noise with his feet like some one running 
fast. 


368 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“They are coming,” cried several voices from inside. 

“Ah !” cried Chicot, as if out of breath, “it is you, miserable 
monk !” 4 

“Say nothing, monseigneur !’ murmured the voices, “he 
takes you for Gorenflot.” ales ih 

“ Ah! it is you, heavy mass—pondus immobile ; it is you, 
indigesta moles !” 

And at each apostrophe, Chicot, arrived at last at his desired 
vengeance, let fall the cord with all the weight of his arm on 
the body before him. 

“Silence !” whispered the voices again; “he takes you for 
Gorenflot.” 

Mayenne only uttered groans, and made immense efforts to 
get through. 

“ Ah! conspirator!” cried Chicot again; “ah! unworthy 
monk, this is for your drunkenness, this for idleness, this for 
anger, this for greediness, and this for all the vices you have.” 

““M. Chicot, have pity,” whispered Gorenflot. 

“ And here, traitor, this is for your treason,” continued 
Chicot. 

“ Ah! why did it not please God to substitute for your vulgar 
carcase the high and mighty shoulders of the Duc de Mayenne, 
to whom I owe a volley of blows, the interest of which has been 
accumulating for seven years !” 

“‘Chicot !” cried the duke. 

“Yes, Chicot, unworthy servant of the king, who wishes he 
had the hundred arms of Briareus for this occasion.” And he 
redoubled his blows with such violence, that the sufferer, making 
a tremendous effort, pushed himself through, and fell torn and 
bleeding into the arms of his friends. Chicot’s last blow fell 
into empty space. He turned, and saw that the true Gorenflot 
had fainted with terror. 


CHAPTER XC. 


WHAT WAS PASSING NEAR THE BASTILLE WHILE CHICOT WAS 
PAYING HIS DEBT TO M. DE MAYENNE. 


Ir was eleven at night, and the Duc d’Anjou was waiting im- 
patiently at home for a messenger from the Duc de Guise. He 


SS Eee eee ota 


WHAT WAS PASSING NEAR THE BASTILLE. 369 


walked restlessly up and down, looking every minute at the 
clock. All at once he heard a horse in the courtyard, and 
thinking it was the messenger, he ran to the window, but it was 
a groom leading up and down a horse which was waiting for its 
master, who almost immediately came out. It was Bussy, who, 
as captain of the duke’s guards, came to give the password for 
the night. The duke, seeing this handsome and brave young 
man, of whom he had never had reason to complain, experienced 
an instant’s remorse, but on his face he read so much joy, hope, 
and happiness, that all his jealousy returned. However, Bussy, 
ignorant that the duke was watching him, jumped into his 
saddle and rode off to his own hotel, where he gave his horse 
to the groom. ‘There he saw Rémy. 

“Ah! you, Rémy P” 

“* Myself, monsieur.” 

“Not yet in bed ?” 

“J have just come in. Indeed, since I have no longer a 
patient, it seems to me that the days have forty-eight hours,” 

“Are you ennuyé ?” 

“Ob fear.so:” 

“Then Gertrude is abandoned ?” 

stertectly.”’ 

“You grew tired ?” 

“Of being beaten. That was how her love showed itself.” 

“And does your heart not speak for her to-night ?” 

“Why to-night ?” 

“Because I would have taken you with me.” 

“To the Bastille ?” 

@ Nes,” 

“You are going there ?” 

Paes: 7 

“ And Monsoreau ?” 

“Ts at Compiégne, preparing a chase for the king.” 

“‘ Are you sure, monsieur ?” 

“ The order was given publicly this morning.” 

“ Ah! well; Jourdain, my sword.” 

““You have changed your mind ?” 

“J will accompany you to the door, for two reasons.” 

‘What are they ?” 

“Firstly, lest you should meet any enemies.” 

Bussy smiled. 

Oh! mon Dieu, I know you fear no one, and that Rémy the 

24 


370 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


doctor is but a poor companion ; still, two men are not so likely 
to be attacked as one. Secondly, because I have a great deal 
of good advice to give you.” 

“Come, my dear Rémy, come. We will speak of her ; and 
next to the pleasure of seeing the woman you love, I know none 
greater than talking of her.” 

Bussy then took the arm of the young doctor, and they set off. 
Rémy on the way tried hard to induce Bussy to return early, 
insisting that he would be more fit for his duel on the morrow. 

Bussy smiled. ‘Fear nothing,” said he. 

“Ah! my dear master, to-morrow you ought to fight like 
Hercules against Anteeus—like Theseus against the Minotaur— 
like Bayard—like something Homeric, gigantic impossible ; I 
wish people to speak of it in future times as the combat, par 
excellence, and in which you had not even received a scratch.” 

“ Be easy, my dear Rémy, you shall see wonders. This morn- 
ing I put swords in the hands of four fencers, who during eight 
minutes could not touch me once, while I tore their doublets 
to pieces.” 

So conversing, they arrived in the Rue St. Antoine. 

‘“‘ Adieu! here we are,” said Bussy. 

Shall I wait for you ?” 

“Why 2” 

“To make suré that you will return before two o'clock, and 
have at least five or six hours’ sleep before your duel.” 

“Tf I give you my word ?” 

“Oh! that will be enough ; Bussy’s word is never doubted.” 

“You have it then.” 

“Then, adieu, monsieur.” 

*¢ Adieu, Rémy.” 

Rémy watched, and saw Bussy enter, not this time by the 
window, but boldly through the door, which Gertrude opened 
for him. Then Rémy turned to go home; but he had only 
gone a few steps, when he saw coming towards him five armed 
men, wrapped in cloaks. When they arrived about ten yards 
from him, they said good-night to each other, and four went off 
in different directions, while the fifth remained stationary. 

“M. de St. Luc !” said Rémy. 

‘caNemiy 2 

“Rémy, in person. Is it an indiscretion to ask what your 
lordship does at this hour so far from the Louvre ?” 

“Ma foi! Iam examining, by the king’s order, the physiognomy 


WHAT WAS PASSING NEAR THE BASTILLE. 371 


of the city. He said to me, ‘St. Luc, walk about the streets of 
Paris, and if you hear any one say I have abdicated, contradict 
him.’” 

“And have you heard it ?” 

“Nowhere ; and as it is just midnight, and I have met no 
one but M. de Monsoreau, I have dismissed my friends, and 
am about to return.” 

““M. de Monsoreau !” 

“sess” ; 

“You met him ?” 

“With a troop of armed men; ten or twelve at least.” 

“Tmpossible !” 

“Why so ?” 

“ He ought to be at Compiegne.” 

“He ought to be, but he is not.” 

“ But the king’s order ?” 

“Bah ! who obeys the king ?” 

“Did he know you ?” 

‘‘T believe so.” 

“You were but five ?” 

“My four friends and I.” 

“ And he did not attack you ?” 

“On the contrary, he avoided me, which astonished me, as 
on seeing him, I expected a terrible battle.” 

“Where was he going ?” 

“To the Rue de la Tixanderie.” 

“ Ah! mon Dieu !” 

“What ?” 

““M. de St. Luc, a great misfortune is about to happen.” 

“To whom ?” 

“To M. de Bussy.” 

“‘Bussy ! speak, Rémy; I am his friend, you know.” 

“Oh! M. de Bussy thought him at Compiégne.” 

“Well ?” 

“ And, profiting by his absence, is with Madame de Monso- 
reau.” 

Abi? 

“Do you not see? he has had suspicions, and has feigned to 
depart, that he might appear unexpectedly.” 

“Ah! it is the Duc d’Anjou’s doing, I believe. Have you 
good lungs, Rémy ?” 

“‘Corbleu ! like a blacksmith’s bellows.” 


372 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Well! let us run. You know the house ?” ta 
eves? 

“Go onthen.” And the young men set off like hunted deer. 
“Ts he much in advance of us ?” said Rémy. 

“ About a quarter of an hour.” 

“Tf we do but arrive in time !” 


CHAPTER XCI. 
THE ASSASSINATION. 


Bussy, himself without disquietude or hesitation, had been re- 
ceived by Diana without fear, for she believed herself sure of 
the absence of M. de Monsoreau. Never had this beautiful 
woman been more beautiful, nor Bussy more happy. She was 
moved, however, by fears for the morrow’s combat, now so 
near, and she repeated to him, again and again, the anxiety she 
felt about it, and questioned him as to the arrangements he had 
made for flight. ‘To conquer was not all; there was after- 
wards the king’s anger to avoid, for it was not probable that he 
would ever pardon the death or defeat of his favourites. 

“And then,” said she, “are you not acknowledged to be the 
bravest man in France? Why make it a point of honour to 
augment your glory? You are already superior to other men, 
and you do not wish to please any other woman but me, Louis. 
Therefore, guard your life, or rather—for I think there is not a 
man in France capable of killing you, Louis—I should say, take 
care of wounds, for you may be wounded. Indeed, it was 
through a wound received in fighting with these same men, that 
I first made your acquaintance.” 

“Make yourself easy,” said Bussy, smiling ; “I will take care 
of my face—I shall not be disfigured.” 

“Oh, take care of yourself altogether. Think of the grief you 
would experience if you saw me brought home wounded and 
bleeding, and that I should feel the same grief on seeing your 
blood. Be prudent, my too courageous hero—that is all I ask. 
Act like the Roman of whom you read to me the other day : let 
your friends fight, aid the one who needs it most, but if three 
men—if two men attack you, fly; you can turn, like Horatius, 
and kill them one after another,” — 





THE ASSASSINATION. “373 


* “Ves, my dear Diana.” 

“Oh, you reply without hearing me, Louis; you look at me, 
and do not listen.” 

“But I see you, and you are beautiful.” 

“Do not think of my beauty just now! Mon Dieu! it is 
your life I am speaking of. Stay, I will tell you something that 
will make you more prudent—I shall have the courage to witness 
this duel.” 

“You !? 

|i shallpbe there.” 

“Impossible, Diana !” 

“No; listen. There is, in the room next to this, a window 
looking into a little court, but with a side-view of the Tour- 
nelles.” 

“Yes, I remember—the window from which I threw crumbs 
to the birds the other day.” 

“From there I can have a view of the ground; therefore, 
above all things, take care to stand so that I can see you; you 
will know that I am there, but do not look at me, lest your 
enemy should profit by it.” 

“And kill me, while I had my eyes fixed upon you. If I 
had to choose my death, Diana, that is the one I should prefer.” 

“Yes; but now you are not to die, but live.” 

“And I will live; therefore tranquillise yourself, Diana. 
Besides, I am well seconded—you do not know my friends ; 
Antragues uses his sword as well as I do, Ribeirac is so steady 
on the ground that his eyes and his arms alone seem to be alive, 
and Livarot is as active as a tiger. Believe me, Diana, I wish 
there were more danger, for there would be more honour.” 

“Well, I believe you, and I smile and hope ; but listen, and 
promise to obey me.” 

“‘ Ves, if you do not tell me to leave.” 

Tt is just what I am about to do. I appeal to your reason.” 

“Then you should not have made me mad.” 

“No nonsense, but obedience—that is the way to prove your 
love.” 

** Order, then.” 

“ Dear friend, you want a long sleep; go home.” 

“Not already.” 

“Yes, I am going to pray for you.” 

“Pray now, then.” 

As he spoke, a pane of the window flew into pieces, then the 


374 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


window itself, and three armed men appeared on the balcony 
while a fourth was climbing over. This one had his face covered 
with a mask, and held in his right hand a sword, and in his left 
a pistol. 

Bussy remained paralysed for a moment by the dreadful cry 
uttered by Diana at this sight. ‘The masked man made a sign, 
and the three others advanced. Bussy put Diana back, and 
drew his sword. 

“Come, my brave fellows !” said a sepulchral voice from 
under the mask; “he is already half-dead with fear.” 

“ You are wrong,” said Bussy; “I never feel fear.” 

Diana drew near him. 

“Go back, Diana,” said he. But she threw herself on his 
neck. ‘ You will get me killed,” said he; and she drew back. 

“Ah!” said the masked man, ‘it is M. de Bussy, and I 
would not believe it, fool that I was! Really, what a good and 
excellent friend ! He learns that the husband is absent, and has 
left his wife alone, and fears she may be afraid, so he comes to 
keep her company, although on the eve of a duel. I repeat, he 
is a good and excellent friend !” 

“Ah! it is you, M. de Monsoreau !” said Bussy ; “ throw off 
your mask.” 

“T will,” said he, doing so. 

Diana uttered another cry ; the comte was as pale as a corpse, 
but he smiled like a demon. 

“Let us finish, monsieur,” said Bussy; “it was very well for 
Homer’s heroes, who were demigods, to talk before they fought ; 
but I am a man—attack me, or let me pass.” 

Monsoreau replied by a laugh which made Diana shudder, 
but raised Bussy’s anger. 

“Let me pass !” cried he. 

“Oh von” 

“Then, draw and have done; I wish to go home and live 
far off.” 

During this time two other men mounted into the balcony. 

“Two and four make six,” said Bussy, “where are the 
others ?” 

“Waiting at the door.” 

Diana fell on her knees, and in spite of her efforts Bussy 
heard her sobs. 

‘““My dear comte,” said he, “ you know I am a man of 
honour,” 





THE ASSASSINATION. 375 


~) 


“Yes, you are, and madame is a faithful wife.” 

“Good, monsieur; you are severe, but, perhaps, it is de- 
served ; only as I have a prior engagement with four gentlemen, 
I beg to be allowed to retire to-night, and I pledge my word, 
you shall find me again, when and where you will.” 

Monsoreau shrugged his shoulders. 

“I swear to you, monsieur,” said Bussy, ‘‘ that when I have 
satisfied MM Quelus, Schomberg, D’Epernon, and Maugiron, 
I shall be at yourservice. If they kill me, your vengeance 
will be satisfied, and if not——” 

Monsoreau turned to his men. ‘On, my brave fellows,” 
said he. 

“Oh !” said Bussy, “ I was wrong; it is not a duel, but an 
assassination. ” 

ees.” 

“We were each deceived with regard to the other ; but 
remember, monsieur, that the Duc d’Anjou will avenge me.” 

“Tt was he who sent me.” 

Diana groaned. 

Instantaneously Bussy overturned the prie-Dieu, drew a 
table towards him, and threw a chair over all, so that in a 
second he had formed a kind of rampart between himself and 
his enemies. This movement had been so rapid, that the ball 
fired at him from the arquebuse only struck the prie-Dieu. 
Diana sobbed aloud. Bussy glanced at her, and then at his assail- 
ants, crying, ‘Come on, but take care, for my sword is sharp.” 

The men advanced, and one tried to seize the prie-Dieu, but 
before he reached it, Bussy’s sword pierced his arm. ‘The man 
uttered a cry, and fell back. 

Bussy then heard rapid steps in the corridor, and thought he 
was surrounded. He flew to the door to lock it, but before he 
could reach it, it was opened, and two men rushed in. 

“ Ah! dear master!” cried a well-known voice, “are we in 
time ?” 

“Rémy !” 

“ And I ?” cried a second voice, “it seems they are attempt- 
ing assassination here.” 

“St. Luc !” cried Bussy, joyfully. ‘Ah! M. de Monsoreau, 
I think now you will do well to let us pass, for if you do not, 
we will pass over you.” 

“ Three more men,” cried Monsoreau. And they saw three 
new assailants appear on the balcony, 


376 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“They are an army,” cried St. Luc. 

“Oh! God protect him!” cried Diana. ; 

“ Wretch !” cried Monsoreau, and he advanced to strike her. 
Bussy saw the movement. Agile as a tiger, he bounded on 
him, and touched him in the throat ; but the distance was too 
great, it was only a scratch. Five or six men rushed on Bussy, 
but one fell beneath the sword of St. Luc. 

“Rémy !” cried Bussy, “carry away Diana.” 

Monsoreau uttered a yell and snatched a pistol from one of 
the men. 

Rémy hesitated. “ But you ?” said he. 

“‘ Away ! away! I confide her to you.” 

“Come, madame,” said Rémy. 

“ Never ! I will never leave him.” 

Rémy seized her in his arms. 

“‘Bussy, help me! Bussy!” cried Diana. For any one who 
separated her from Bussy, seemed an enemy to her. 

**Go,” cried Bussy, “I will rejoin you.” 

At this moment Monsoreau fired, and Bussy saw Rémy totter, 
and then fall, dragging Diana with him. Bussy uttered a cry, 
and turned. 

“Tt is nothing, master,” said Rémy. ‘It was I who received 
the ball. She is safe.” 

As Bussy turned, three men threw themselves on him; St. 
Luc rushed forward, and one of them fell. The two others 
drew back. 

“St. Luc,” cried Bussy, “by her you love, save Diana.” 

* But you P” 

“7 am a man.” 

St. Luc rushed to Diana, seized her in his arms, and disap- 
peared through the door. 

‘“‘Here, my men, from the staircase,” shouted Monsoreau. 

“ Ah ! coward !” cried Bussy. 

Monsoreau retreated behind his men. Bussy gave a back 
stroke and a thrust; with the first he cleft open a head, and 
with the second pierced a breast. 

“ That clears !” cried he. 

“Fly, master !” cried Rémy. 

“ Diana must save herself first,” murmured he, 

“Take care,” cried Rémy again, as four men rushed in 
through the door from the staircase. Bussy saw himself be- 
tween two troops, but his only cry was, “Ah! Diana !” 


THE ASSASSINATION. 377 


Then, without losing a second, he rushed on the four men ; 
and taken by surprise, two fell, one dead, one wounded. 

Then, as Monsoreau advanced, he retreated again behind his 
rampart. 

“Push the bolts, and turn the key,” cried Monsoreau, “we 
have him now.” During this time, by a great effort, Rémy 
had dragged himself before Bussy, and added his body to the 
rampart. 

There was an instant’s pause. Bussy looked around him. 
Seven men lay stretched on the ground, but nine remained. 
And seeing these nine swords, and hearing Monsoreau en- 
couraging them, this brave man, who had never known fear, 
saw plainly before him the image of death, beckoning him 
with its gloomy smile. 

“T may kill five more,” thought he, “but the other four will 
kill me. Ihave strength for ten minutes’ more combat ; in 
that ten minutes let me do what man never did before.” 

And rushing forward, he gave three thrusts, and three times he 
pierced the leather of a shoulder-belt, or the buff of a jacket, and 
three times a stream of blood followed. 

During this time he had parried twenty blows with his left arm, 
and his cloak, which he had wrapped round it, was hacked to 
pieces. 

The men changed their tactics; seeing two of their number 
fall and one retire, they renounced the sword, and some tried 
to strike with the butt-ends of their muskets, while others fired at 
him with pistols. He avoided the balls by jumping from side to 
side, or by stooping ; for he seemed not only to see, hear, and act, 
but to divine every movement of his enemies, and appeared more 
than a man, or only man because he was mortal. Then he thought 
that to kill Monsoreau would be the best way to end the com- 
bat, and sought him with his eyes among his assailants, but he 
stood in the background, loading the pistols for his men. 
However, Bussy rushed forward, and found himself face to 
face with him. He, who held a loaded pistol, fired, and the 
ball, striking Bussy’s sword, broke it off «ix inches from the 
handle. 

** Disarmed !” cried Monsoreau. 

Bussy drew back, picking up his broken blade, and in an in- 
stant it was fastened to the handle with a handkerchief; and 
the battle recommenced, presenting the extraordinary spectacle 
of a man almost without arms, but also almost without wounds, 


278 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


keeping six enemies at bay, and with ten corpses at his feet for 
arampart. When the fight began again, Monsoreau com- 
menced to draw away the bodies, lest Bussy should snatch a 
sword from one of them. Bussy was surrounded; the blade 
of his sword bent and shook in his hand, and fatigue began to 
render his arm heavy, when suddenly, one of the bodies raising 
itself, pushed a rapier into his hand. It was Rémy’s last act 
of devotion. Bussy uttered a cry of joy, and threw away his 
broken sword : at the same moment Monsoreau fired at Rémy, 
and the ball entered his brain. This time he fell to rise no 
more. 

Bussy uttered a cry. His strength seemed to return to him, 
and he whirled round his sword in a circle, cutting through a 
wrist at his right-hand, and laying open a cheek at his left. Ex- 
hausted by the effort, he let his right arm fall for a moment, 
while with his left he tried to undraw the bolts behind him, 
During this second, he received a ball in his thigh, and two 
swords touched his side. But he had unfastened the bolt, and 
turned the key. Sublime with rage, he rushed on Monsoreau, 
and wounded him in the breast. 

“Ah !” cried Bussy, “I begin to think I shall escape.” 

The four men rushed on him, but they could not touch him, 
and were repulsed with blows. Monsoreau approached him 
twice more, and twice more was wounded. But three men 
seized hold of the handle of his sword, and tore it from him. 
He seized a stool of carved wood, and struck three blows with 
it, and knocked down two men; but it broke on the shoulder 
of the third, who sent his dagger into Bussy’s breast. 

Bussy seized him by the wrist, forced the dagger from him, 
and stabbed him to the heart. The last man jumped out of 
the window. Bussy made two steps to follow him, but Mon- 
soreau, raising himself from the floor, where he was lying, 
wounded him in the leg with his dagger. The young man 
seized a sword which lay near, and plunged it so vigorously into 
his breast, that he pinned him to the floor. 

“Ah!” cried Bussy, “I do not know if I shall live, but at 
least I shall have seen you die !” 

Bussy dragged himself to the corridor, his wounds bleeding 
fearfully. He threw a last glance behind him. The moon was 
shining brilliantly, and its light penetrated this room inundated 
with blood, and illuminated the walls pierced by balls, and 
hacked by blows, and lighted up the pale faces of the dead, 





THE ASSASSINATION. 379 


which even then seemed to preserve the fierce look of assas- 
sins. 

Bussy, at the sight of this field of battle, peopled by him with 
slain, nearly dying as he was, experienced a feeling of pride. As 
he had intended, he had done what no man had done before 
him. There now remained to him only to fly. 

But all was not over for the unfortunate young man. On 
arriving on the staircase, he saw arms shine in the courtyard ; 
some one fired, and the ball pierced his shoulder. ‘The coart 
being guarded, he thought of the little window, where Diana 
had said she would sit to see the combat, and as quickly as he 
could he dragged himself there, and locked the door behind 
him ; then he mounted the window with great difficulty, and 
measured the distance with his eyes, wondering if he could 
jump to the other side. 

“Oh, I shall never have the strength !” cried he. 

But at that moment he heard steps coming up the stair- 
case ; it was the second troop mounting. He collected all his 
strength, and made a spring; but his foot slipped, and he fell 
on the iron spikes, which caught his clothes, and he hung sus- 
pended. 

He thought of his only friend. 

“St. Luc!” cried he, “help! St. Luc 

“ Ah, it is you, M. de Bussy,” answered a voice from behind 
some trees. 

Bussy shuddered, for it was not the voice of St. Luc. 

“St, Luc !” cried he again, “come to me! Diana is safe! I 
have killed Monsoreau !” 

“ Ah! Monsoreau is killed ?” said the same voice. 

“Yes.” Then Bussy saw two men come out from behind 
the trees. 

“Gentlemen,” cried he, “in heaven’s name, help an unfor- 
tunate nobleman, who may still escape if you aid him.” 

‘What do you say, monseigneur ?” said one. 

“ Tmprudent !” said the other. q 

‘““Monseigneur,” cried Bussy, who heard the conversation, 
* deliver me, and I will pardon you for betraying me.” 

“Do you hear ?” said the duke. 

“‘What do you order P” 

“That you deliver him from his sufferings,” said he, with a 
kind of laugh. 

Bussy turned his head to look at the man who laughed at 


380 CHICOT, THE JESTEE. 


such a time, and at the same instant an arquebuse was dis- 
charged into his breast. 
‘Cursed assassin! oh, Diana !” murmured he, and fell back 
dead. 

“Is he dead 2” cried several men who, after forcing the door, 
appeared at the windows. ; 

“Yes,” said Aurilly. ‘ But fly ; remember that his highness 
the Duc d’Anjou was the friend and protector of M. de Bussy.” 

The men instantly made off, and when the sound of their 
steps was lost, the duke said, “Now, Aurilly, go up into the 
room and throw out of the window the body of Monsoreau.” 

Aurilly obeyed, and the blood fell over the clothes of the 
duke, who, however, raised the coat of the dead man, and drew 
out the paper which he had signed. 

‘“‘This is all I wanted,” said he ; “so now let us go.” 

‘‘ And Diana?” 

“Ma foi! I care no more for her. Untie her and St. Luc, 
and let them go.” 

Aurilly disappeared. 

‘“‘T shall not be king of France,” murmured the duke, “ but, 
at all events, I shall not be beheaded for high treason.” 


CHAPTER XCII. 


HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT FOUND HIMSELF MORE THAN 
EVER BETWEEN A GALLOWS AND AN ABBEY. 


THE guard placed to catch the conspirators got none of them; 
they all escaped, as we have seen ; therefore, when Crillon at 
last broke open the door, he found the place deserted and 
empty. In vain they opened doors and windows ; in vain the 
king cried, ‘‘Chicot !” No one answered. 

“Can they have killed him ?” said he. ‘‘ Mordieu ! if they 
have they shall pay for it !” 

Chicot did not reply, because he was occupied in beating M. 
de Mayenne, which gave him so much pleasure that he neither 
heard nor saw what was passing. However, when the duke had 
disappeared, he heard and recognised the royal voice. 

“‘ Here, my son, here !” he cried, trying at the same time to 





BETWEEN A GALLOWS AND AN ABBEY. 381 


raise Gorenflot, who, beginning to recover himself, cried, “‘ Mon- 
sieur Chicot !” 

“Vou are not dead, then ?” 

“My good M. Chicot, you will not give me up to my 
enemies ?” 
sc Wreteh.!” 

Gorenflot began to howl and wring his hands. 

“T, who have had so many good dinners with you,” continued 
Gorenflot ; “1, who drank so well, that you always called me 
the king of the sponges ; I, who loved so much the capons you 
used to order at the Corne d’Abondance, that I never left any- 
thing but the bones.” 

This climax appeared sublime to Chicot, and determined him 
to clemency. 

“Here they are! Mon Dieu,” cried Gorenflot, vainly trying 
to rise, “here they come, I am lost! Oh! good M. Chicot, 
help me !” and finding he could not rise, he threw himself with 
his face to the ground. 

“Get up,” said Chicot. 

“Do you pardon me ?” 

© We shall see.” 

“You have beaten me so much.” 

Chicot laughed ; the poor monk fancied he had received the 
blows given to Mayenne. 

“ You laugh, M. Chicot.” 

“T do, animal.” 

“Then I shall live ?” 

“‘ Perhaps.” 

“You would not laugh if your Gorenflot was about to 
die.” 

“Tt does not depend upon me, but on the king ; he alone 
has the power of life and death.” 

At this moment lights appeared, and a crowd of embroidered 
dresses and swords shining in the light of the torches. 

“ Ah! Chicot! my dear Chicot, how glad I am to see you,” 
cried the king. 

“You hear, good M. Chicot,” whispered Gorenflot, “ this 
great prince is glad to see you.” 

“‘ Well >” 

“ Well! in his happiness he would not refuse you a favour ; 
ask for my pardon.” 

“What! from Herod ?” 


382 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“Oh! silence, dear M. Chicot.” 

“Well! sire, how many have you caught?” said Chicot, 
advancing. 

“‘Confiteor,” said Gorenflot. 

“‘ Not one,” said Crillon, “the traitors must have found some 
opening unknown to us.” 

“Tt is probable.” 

“But you saw them ?” said the king. 

A 

“You recognised them, no doubt ?” 

Nios sire?” 

“ Not recognised them ?” 

“That is to say, I recognised only one.” 

“Who was that ?” 

““M. de Mayenne.” 

““M. de Mayenne, to whom you owed——” 

‘Ves, sire; we are quits.” 

“Ah! tell me about that, Chicot.” 

“ Afterwards, my son ; now let us think of the present.” 

“* Confiteor,” repeated Gorenflot. 

“Ah! you have made a prisoner,” said Crillon, laying his 
targe hand on the monk’s shoulder. 
- Chicot was silent for a minute, leaving Gorenflot a prey to 
all the anguish of such profound terror that he nearly fainted 
again. 

At last Chicot said, “ Sire, look well at this monk.” 

“The preacher Gorenflot,” cried Henri. ° 

“Confiteor, confiteor,” repeated he. 

“ Himself,” said Chicot. 





“‘ He who i 
“ Just so,” interrupted Chicot. 
“Ah, ah? 


Gorenflot shook with terror, for he heard the sounds of swords 
clashing. 

“Wait,” said Chicot, “the king must know all.” And, taking 
him aside, “‘ My son,” said he, “thank God for having per- 
mitted this holy man to be born thirty-five years ago, for it is he 
who has saved us all.” 

“‘ How so P?” 

“Tt was he who recounted to me the whole plot, from the 
alpha to the omega.” 

So Wihesge: 








BETWEEN A GALLOWS AND AN ABBEY. 383 


“ About a week ago; so that if ever your majesty’s enemies 
catch him he will be a dead man.” 

Gorenflot heard only the last words, “a dead man ;” and he 
covered his face with his hands. 

“Worthy man,” said the king, casting a benevolent look on 
the mass of flesh before him, “ we will cover him with our pro- 
tection.” 

Gorenflot perceived the nature of the look, and began to feel 
relieved. - 

“You will do well, my king,” said Chicot. 

“What must we do with him ?” 

“‘T think that as long as he remains in Paris he will be in 
danger.” 

“Tf I gave him guards.” 

Gorenflot heard this proposition of Henri’s. ‘ Well!” 
thought he, ‘‘I shall get off with imprisonment ; I prefer that 
to beating, if they only feed me well.” 

“Oh! no, that is needless,” said Chicot, “if you will allow 
me to take him with me.” 

“ Where?” 

“Home.” 

“Well! take him, and then return to the Louvre.” 

“Get up, reverend father,” said Chicot. 

“ He mocks me,” murmured Gorenflot. 

“Get up, brute,” whispered Chicot, giving him a sly kick. 

“ Ah! I have deserved it,” cried Gorenflot. 

“‘ What does he say ?” asked the king. 

“Sire, he is thinking over all his fatigues and his tortures, 
and when I promised him your protection, he said, ‘Oh! I 
have well merited that.’” 

“ Poor devil !” said the king, “ take good care of him.” 

‘Oh! be easy, sire, he will want for nothing with me.” 

“Oh! M. Chicot, dear M. Chicot,” cried Gorenflot, “where 
am I to be taken to ?” 

“You will know soon. Meanwhile, monster of iniquity, 
thank his majesty.” 

“What for ?” 

“Thank him, I tell you.” 

“Sire,” stammered Gorenflot, “ since your gracious ma- 
jesty Se 

“ Yes,” interrupted Henri, “I know all you did for me, in 
your journey from Lyons, on the evening of the League, and 





384 CHICOT, THE JEST EF 


again to-day. Be easy, you shall be recompensed according to 
your merits.” ; 

Gorenflot sighed. 

“Where is Panurge ?” said Chicot. 

“Tn the stable, poor beast.” 

“Well! go and fetch him, and return to me.” 

“Ves, M. Chicot.” 

And the monk went away as fast as he could, much astonished 
not to be followed by guards. 

“‘Now, my son,” said Chicot, “keep twenty men for your own 
escort, and send ten with M. Crillon to the Hotel d’Anjou and 
let them bring your brother here.” 

eWhy?” 

“ That he may not escape a second time.” 

“‘ Did my brother ; 

“Have you repented following my advice to-day ?” 

“No, par la mordieu.” 

“Then do what I tell you.” 

Henri gave the order to Crillon, wno set off at once. 

“ And you 2” said Henri. 

“Oh! I am waiting for my saint.” 

“ And you will rejoin me at the Louvre ?” 

“Tn an hour; go, my son.” 

Henri went ; and Chicot, proceeding to the stables, met Go- 
renflot coming out on his ass. The poor devil had not an idea 
of endeavouring to escape from the fate that he thought awaited 
him. 

‘““Come, come,” said Chicot, “ we are waited for.” 

Gorenflot made no resistance, but he shed many tears. 








CHAPTER XCIII. 


WHERE CHICOT GUESSES WHY D’'EPERNON HAD BLOOD ON HIS 
FEET AND NONE “IN HIS CHEEKS. 


THE king, returning to the Louvre, found his friends peacefully 
asleep, except D’Epernon, whose bed was empty. 

“Not come in yet ; how imprudent,” murmured the king to 
Chicot, who had also returned, and was standing with them by 
their beds. “The fool; having to fight to-morrow with a man’ 


WHY DEPERNON HAD BLOOD ON HIS FEET. 385 


like Bussy, and to take no more care than this. Let them seek 
M. d’Epernon,” said he, going out of the room, and speaking 
to an usher. 

“‘ M. d’Epernon is just coming in, sire,” replied the man. 

Indeed, D’Epernon came softly along, thinking to glide un- 
perceived to his room. 

On seeing the king he looked confused. 

“Ah! here you are at last,” said Henri; ‘come here and 
look at your friends. They are wise ! they understand the im- 
portance of the duel to-morrow; but you, instead of praying 
and sleeping like them, have been running about the streets. 
Corbleu; how pale you are! What will you look like to- 
morrow ?” 

D’Epernon was indeed pale, but at the king’s remark he 
coloured. 

“Now go to bed,” continued Henri, “and sleep if you 
can.” 

“Why not ?” 

“‘ Much time you will have. You are to fight at daybreak ; 
and at this time of year the sun rises at four. It is now two; 
you have but two hours to sleep.” 

“Two hours well employed go a long way.” 

“You will sleep, then ?” 

“ Well, sire !” 

“T do not believe it.” 

“Why not ?” 

“ Because you are agitated; you think of to-morrow.” 

“J will sleep, sire, if your majesty will only let me.” 

‘That is just,” said Chicot. 

Indeed D’Epernon undressed and got into bed, with a calm 
and satisfied look, that seemed, both to the king and Chicot to 
augur well. 

“‘ He is as brave as a Cesar,” said the king. 

“So brave that I do not understand it,” said Chicot. 

“See, he sleeps already.” 

Chicot approached the bed to look. 

“ Oh !” said he. 

‘* What is it P” 

“Look,” and he pointed to D’Epernon’s boots. 

“Blood !’ 

“He has been walking in blood.” 

“Can he be wounded ?” said the king, anxiously. 

25 


- 


386 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“‘Bah ! he would have told us; and, besides, unless he had 
been wounded like Achilles in the heel are 

“See, the sleeve of his doublet is also spotted. What can 
have happened to him ?” i 

“‘ Perhaps he has killed some one to keep his hand in.” 

“Tt is singular. Well, to-morrow, at least——” 

<¢To-day, you mean.” 

“Well! to-day I shall be tranquil.” 

“Why so?” 

“ Because those cursed Angevins will be killed.” 

“ You think so, Henri ?” 

“JT am sure of it; my friends are brave.” 

“‘T never heard that the Angevins were cowards.” 

“No, doubtless; but my friends are so strong; look at 
Schomberg’s arm ; what muscle !” 

“‘ Ah! ifyousaw Antragues’s! Is that all that reassures you ?” 

“No; come, and I will show you something.” 

SOV bere i 

“Tn my rooni.” 

« And this something makes you confident of victory ?” 

ce eee 

“Come, then.” 

“Wait, and let me take leave of them. Adieu, my good 
friends,” murmured the king, as he stooped and imprinted a 
light kiss on each of their foreheads. 

Chicot was not superstitious, but as he looked on, his imagi- 
nation pictured a living man making his adieux to the dead. 

“Tt is singular,” thought he. “I never felt so before—poor 
fellows.” 

As soon as the king quitted the room, D’Epernon opened 
his eyes ; and, jumping out of bed, began to efface, as well as 
he could, the spots of blood on his clothes. ‘Then he went to 
bed again. 

As for Henri, he conducted Chicot to his room, and opened. 
a long ebony coffer lined with white satin. 

“ Look !” said he. 

“ Swords !” 

“Yes! but blessed swords, my dear friend.” 

“ Blessed ! by whom?” 

“ By our holy father the pope, who granted me this favour. 


To send this box to Rome and back, cost me twenty horses and 
four men.” 








WHY DEPERNON HAD BLOOD ON HIS FEET. 387 


‘ Are they sharp ?” 

“ Doubtless ; but their great merit is that they are blessed.” 

“Ves, I know that; but still I should like to be sure they 
are sharp.” 

“Pagan !” 

“Let us talk of something else.” 

“Well, be quick.” 

“You want to sleep ?” 

“No, to pray.” 

“Tn that case we will talk. Have you sent for M. d’Anjou >” 

“Yes, he is waiting below.” 

“What are you going to do with him ?” 

“ Throw him into the Bastille.” 

“That is very wise: only choose a dungeon that is deep and 
safe—such, for example, as those which were occupied by the 
Constable de St. Paul, or Armagnac.” 

“Oh! be easy.” 

“TI know where they sell good black velvet, my son.” 

“ Chicot ! he is my brother.” 

“Ah! true; the family mourning is violet. Shall you speak 
to him ?” 

“Ves, certainly ; if only to show him that his plots are dis- 
covered.” 

“Hum !” 

“Do you disapprove ?” 

“In your place I should cut short the conversation, and 
double the imprisonment.” 

“Let them bring here the Duc d’Anjou,” said the king. 

A minute after the duke entered, very pale and disarmed. 
Crillon followed him. 

‘Where did you find him?” asked the king. 

“Sire, his highness was not at home, but I took possession 
of his hotel in the king’s name, and soon after he returned, and 
we arrested him without resistance.” 

‘“‘ That is fortunate.” Then, turning to the prince, he said, 
“Where were you, monsieur ?” 

“Wherever I was, sire, be sure it was on your business.” 

“ T doubt it.” 

Francois bowed. 

“Come, tell me where you were while your accomplices were 
being arrested.” 


“ My accomplices !” 
25—2 


388 CHICOT, PHE JES Tits 


“Yes; your accomplices.” 

“Sire, your majesty is making some mistake.” 

“Oh! this time you shall not escape me; your measure of 
crime is full.” 

“Sire, be moderate; there is certainly some one who slanders 
me to you.” 

““Wretch! you shall die of hunger in a cell of the Bas- 
tille |” 

“IT bow to your orders, whatever they may be.” 

“Hypocrite! But where were you P” 

“Sire, I was serving your majesty, and working for the glory 
and tranquillity of your reign.” 

“ Really ! your audacity is great.” 

‘“‘ Bah!” said Chicot, “tell us about it, my prince ; it must be 
curious.” 

“Sire, I would tell your majesty, had you treated me as a 
brother, but as you have treated me as a criminal, I will let the 
event speak for itself.” 

Then, bowing profoundly to the king, he turned to Crillon 
and the other officers, and said, ‘‘ Now, which of you gentle- 
men will conduct the first prince of the blood to the Bas- 
tallesey, 

Chicot had been reflecting, and a thought struck him. 

“ Ah!’ murmured he, “I believe I guess now why M. 
@’Epernon had so much blood on his feet and so little in his 
cheeks.” 


CHAPTER XCive 
THE MORNING OF THE COMBAT. 


THE king did not sleep all night, and very early in the morning 
he set off, accompanied by Chicot, to examine the ground where 
the combat was to take place. 

_ “Quelus will be exposed to the sun,” said he; “he will have 
it at his right, just in his only eye; whereas Maugiron, who 
has good eyes, will be in the shade. That is badly managed. 
As for Schomberg, his place is good; but Quelus, my poor 
Quelus !” 


“Do not torment yourself so, my king, it is useless.” 


THE MORNING OF THE COMBAT. 389 


“ And D’Epernon; I am really unjust not to think of him ; 
he, who is to fight Bussy. Look at his place, Chicot, he who 
will have to give way constantly, for Bussy is like a tiger, he 
has a tree on his right and a ditch on his left.” 

“Bah !” said Chicot, “I am not concerned about D’Eper- 
non.” ; 

“You are wrong; he will be killed.” 

“Not he; be sure he has taken precautions.” 

“How so?” - 

“ He will not fight.” 

“Did you not hear what he said before going to bed ?” 

“ That is just why I think he will not fight.” 

“ TIncredulous and distrustful !” 

‘‘T know my Gascon, Henri; but if you will take my advice, 
you wil! return to the Louvre.” 

“Ta you think I can stay there during the combat ?” 

“T do not wish you not to love your friends, but I do wish 
you not to leave M. d’Anjou alone at the Louvre.” 

“Ts not Crillon there ?” 

“ Crillon is only a buffalo—a rhinoceros—a wild boar ; while 
your brother is the serpent, whose strength lies in his cunning.” 

“You are right ; I should have sent him to the Bastille.” 

When Chicot and the king entered, the young men were 
being dressed by their valets. 

“‘ Good-morning, gentlemen,” said he; “I find you all in good 
spirits, I hope e” 

“Yes, sire,” said Quelus. 

“You look gloomy, Maugiron.” 

“Sire, I am superstitious, and I had bad dreams last night, so 
I am drinking a little wine to keep up my spirits.” 

““My friend, remember that dreams are the impressions of 
the previous day, and have no influence on the morrow.” 

Ves; sire,” said D’Epernon, “T also had bad dreams last 
night ; but, in spite of that, my hand is steady and fit for action.” 

“Yes,” said Chicot, “ you dreamed you had blood on your 
boots ; that is not a bad dream, for it signifies that you will be 
a conqueror, like Alexander or Cesar.” 

““My friends,” said Henri, “remember you fight only for 
honour ; the past night has seated me firmly on my throne, 
therefore do not think of me; and, above all things, no false 


bravery; you wish to kill your enemies, not to die your- 
selves.” 


390 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


The gentlemen were now ready, and it only remained to take 
leave of their master. 

“Do you go on horseback ?” asked he. 

“No, sire, on foot.” j 

They each kissed his hand, and D’Epernon said, “Sire, bless 
my sword.” 

“Not so, D’Epernon; give up your sword—I have a better 
one for each of you. Chicot, bring them here.” 

“No, sire, send your captain of the guards ; I am but a Pagan, 
and they might lose their virtue by coming through my hands.” 

‘What are these swords, sire ?” said Schomberg. 

‘“Ttalian swords, my son, forged at Milan.” 

“Thanks, sire.” 

“Now go, it is time,” said the king, who could hardly control 
his emotion. 

“Sire,” said Quelus, ‘shall we not have your majesty’s pre- 
sence to encourage us ?” 

‘No, that would not be right ; you will be supposed to fight 
without any one being cognizant of it, and without my sanction. 
Let it appear to be the result of a private quarrel.” 

When they were gone, the king threw himself down in tears. 

‘“‘ Now,” said Chicot, ‘‘I will go to see this duel, for I have 
an idea that something curious will happen with regard to 
D’Epernon.” And he went off. 

Henri shut himself up in his own room, first saying to Crillon, 
who knew what was to take place, ‘‘If we are conquerors, Crillon, 
come and tell me ; if not, strike three blows on the door.” 


CHAPTER XCV. 
THE FRIENDS OF BUSSY. 


THE friends of the Duc d’Anjou had passed as good and tranquil 
a night as those of the king, although their master had not taken 
the same care of them. After a good supper, they had all re- 
tired to sleep at Antragues’s house, which was nearest to the field 
of battle. __Antragues, before supper, had gone to take leave of 
a little milliner whom he adored, Ribeirac had written to his 
mother, and Livarot had made his will. ‘They were up early in 
the morning, and dressed themselves in red breeches and socks, 





THE FRIENDS OF BUSS ¥. 391 
that their enemies might not see their blood, and they had 
doublets of gray silk. ‘They wore shoes without heels, and their 
pages carried their swords, that their arms might not be fatigued. 

The weather was splendid, for love, war, or Walking ; and 
the sun gilded the roofs, on which the night dew was sparkling. 
The streets were dry, and the air delightful. 

Before leaving the house, the young men had sent to the 
Hotel d’Anjou to inquire for Bussy, and had received a reply 
that he had gone out the evening before and had not yet re 
turned. 

“Oh!” said Antragues, “I know where he is; the king 
ordered a grand chase at Compiégne, and M. de Monsoreau 
was to set off yesterday. Itisallright, gentlemen ; he is nearer 
the ground than we are, and may be there before us. We will 
call for him in passing.” 

The streets were empty as they went along; no one was to be 
seen except peasants coming from Montreuil or Vincennes, with 
milk or vegetables. 

The young men went on in silence until they reached the 
Rue St. Antoine. 

Then, with a smile, they glanced at Monsoreau’s house. 

= One could see well from there, and I am sure poor Diana 
will be more than once at the window,” said Antragues. 

‘“‘T think she must be there already,” said Ribeirac, “for the 
window is open.” 

“True, but what can be the meaning of that ladder be- 
fore it ?” 

sultesisyodd:” 

“We are not the only ones to wonder,” said Livarot, “see 
those peasants, who are stopping their carts to look.” 

The young men arrived under the balcony. ‘M. de Monso- 
reau,” they cried “ do you intend to be present at our combat ? 
if so, be quick, for we wish to arrive first.” 

They waited, but no one answered. 

“Did you put up that ladder?” asked ip ce of a man 
who was examining the ground. 

“God forbid !” replied he. 

“* Why so ?” 

“ Look up.” 

“ Blood!” cried Ribeirac. 

“The door has been forced,” said Antragues ; and seizing 
the ladder, he was on the balcony i in a moment. 


392 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


“What is it 2” cried the others, seeing him turn pale. 

A terrible cry was his only answer. Livarot mounted behind 
him. “Corpses ! death everywhere !” cried he. And they both 
entered the room. It bore horrible traces of the terrible com- 
bat of the previous night. A river of blood flowed over the 
room; and the curtains were hanging in strips from sword 
cuts. 

“Oh! poor Rémy !” cried Antragues, suddenly. 

“Dead !” 
eves: 

‘But a regiment of troopers must have passed through the 
room,” cried Livarot. Then, seeing the door of the corridor 
open, and traces of blood indicating that one or more of the com- 
batants had also passed through there, he followed it. Mean- 
while, Antragues went into the adjoining room; there also 
blood was everywhere, and this blood led to the window. He 
leaned out and looked into the little garden. The iron spikes 
still held the livid corpse of the unhappy Bussy. At this sight, 
it was not acry, but a yell, that Antragues uttered. Livarot 
ran to see what it was, and Ribeirac followed. 

“Took !” said Antragues, ‘‘ Bussy dead! Bussy assassinated 
and thrown out of window.” 

They ran down. 

“Tt is he,” cried Livarot. 

“‘ His wrist is cut.” 

‘“‘ He has two balis in his breast.” 

“ He is full of wounds.” 

“‘Ah! poor Bussy ! we will have vengeance !” 

Turning round they came against a second corpse. ‘“ Mon- 
soreau !” cried Livarot. 

“What ! Monsoreau also.” 

“Yes, pierced through and through.” 

“Ah! they have assassinated all our friends.” 

“And his wife? Madame de Monsoreau !” cried Antragues ; 
but no one answered. 

“‘ Bussy, poor Bussy.” 

ie they wished to cet rid of the most formidable of us 
all. 

“Tt is cowardly ! it is infamous !” 

“We will tell the duke.” 

“No,” said Antragues, “let us not charge any one with the 
care of our vengeance. Look, my friends, at the noble face 


Ee 


THE FRIENDS OF BUSSY. 393 


of the bravest of men; see his blood, that teaches that he never 
left his vengeance to any other person. Bussy! we will act 
like you, and we will avenge you.” 

Then, drawing his sword, he dipped it in Bussy’s blood. 

“‘ Bussy,” said he, ‘‘I swear on your corpse, that this blood 
shall be washed off by the blood of your enemies.” 

“ Bussy,” cried the others, “we swear to kill them or die.” 

“No mercy,” said Antragues. 

“But we shall be but three.” 

“True, but we have assassinated no one, and God will 
strengthen the innocent. Adieu, Bussy !” 

“Adieu, Bussy !” repeated the others; and they went out, 
pale but resolute, from that cursed house, around which a crowd 
had begun to collect. 

Arriving on the ground, they found their opponents waiting 
for them. 

“Gentlemen,” said Quelus, rising and bowing, “ we have had 
the honour of waiting for you.” 

“‘ Excuse us,” said Antragues, ‘‘ but we should have been here 
before you, but for one of our companions.” 

““M. de Bussy,” said D’Epernon, ‘‘ I do not see him. Where 
isgne re 
“We can wait for him,” said Schomberg. 

“He will not come.” 

All looked thunderstruck ; but D’Epernon exclaimed : 

“Ah! the brave man par excellence—is he, then, afraid ?” 
“That cannot be,” said Quelus. 

** You are right, monsieur,” said Livarot. 

‘And why will he not come ?” 

“‘ Because he is dead.” 

“Dead !” cried they all, but D’Epernon turned rather pale. 

“‘ And dead because he has been assassinated,” said Antragues. 
* Did you not know it, gentlemen ?” 

“No; how should we ?” 

‘* Besides, is it certain ?” 

Antragues drew his sword. ‘So certain that here is his 
blood,” said he. 

““M. de Bussy assassinated !” 

“His blood cries for vengeance ! do you not hear it, gentle- 
men ?” said Ribeirac. 

“What do you mean ?” 


394 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


«Seek whom the crime profits,’ the law says,” replied 


Ribeirac. 

“Ah! gentlemen, will you explain yourselves ?” cried Mau- 
giron. 

“That is just what we have come for.” 

“Quick ! our swords are in our hands !” said D’Epernon. 

“Oh! you are in a great hurry, M. le Gascon ; you did not 
crow so loud when we were four against four !” 

“Ts it our fault, if you are oaly three ?” 

“ Ves, it is your fault; he is dead because you preferred him 
lying in his blood to standing here ; he is dead, with his wrist 
cut, that that wrist might no longer hold a sword ; he is dead, 
that you might not see the lightning of those eyes, which dazzled 
you all. Do you understand me ? am I clear?” 

“ Enough, gentlemen !” said Quelus. “ Retire, M. d’Epernon ; 
we will fight three against three. These gentlemen shall see if 
we are men to profit by a misfortune which we deplore as much 
as themselves. Come, gentlemen,” added the young man, throw- 
ing his hat behind him, and raising his left hand, while he whirled 
his sword with the right, “God is our judge if we are assassins !” 

“Ah! I hated you before,” cried Schomberg, “and now I 
execrate you !” 

“On your guard, gentlemen ”” cried Antragues. 

“With doublets or without ?” said Schomberg. 

“Without doublets, without shirts; our breasts bare, our 
hearts uncovered !” . 

The young men threw off their doublets and shirts. 

“T have lost my dagger,” said Quelus; “it must have fallen 
on the road.” 

“Or else you left itat M. de Monsoreau’s, in the Place de la 
Bastille,” said Antragues. 

Quelus gave a cry of rage, and drew his sword. 

_ “But he has no dagger, M. Antragues,” cried Chicot, who had 
just arrived. 

“So much the worse for him; it is not my fault,” said 
Antragues. 


a 


LHE COMBAT, 395 


CHAPTER XCVI 


THE COMBAT. 


Tue place where this terrible combat was to take place was 
sequestered and shaded by trees. It was generaliy frequented 
only by children, who came to play there during the day, or by 
drunkards or robbers, who made a sleeping-place of it by night. 

Chicot, his heart palpitating, although he was not of a very 
tender nature, seated himself before the lackeys and pages, on a 
wooden balustrade. 

He did not love the Angevins, and detested the minions, but 
they were all brave young men, and in their veins flowed a 
generous blood, which he was probably destined to see flow 
before long. 

D’Epernon made a last bravado, ‘ What! you are all afraid 
of me ?” he cried. 

“Hold your tongue,” said Antragues. 

“ Come away, bravest of the brave,” said Chicot, “ or else you 
will lose another pair of shoes.” 

“What do you mean ?” 

“T mean that there will soon be blood on the ground, and 
that you will walk in it, as you did last night.” 

D’Epernon became deadly pale, and, moving away, he seated 
himself at some distance from Chicot. 

The combat began as five o’clock struck, and for a few minutes 
nothing was heard but the clashing of swords; not a blow was 
struck. At last Schomberg touched Ribeirac in the shoulder, 
and the blood gushed out ; Schomberg tried to repeat the blow, 
but Ribeirac struck up his sword, and wounded him in the side. 

“ Now let us rest a few seconds, if you like,” said Ribeirac. 

Quelus, having no dagger, was at a great disadvantage ; for he 
was obliged to parry with his left arm, and, as it was bare, on 
each occasion it cost hima wound. His hand was soon bleeding 
in several places, and Antragues had also wounded him in the 
breast ; but at each wound he repeated, “ It is nothing.” 

Livarot and Maugiron were still unwounded. 

Ribeirac and Schomberg recommenced ; the former was 
pierced through the breast, and Schomberg was wounded in the 
neck. 


306 CHICOT, THE JESTER. 


Ribeirac was mortally wounded, and Schomberg rushed on him 
and gave him another ; but he, with his right hand, seized his 
opponent’s, and with his left plunged his dagger into his heart. 

Schomberg fell back, dragging Ribeirac with him. Livarot 
ran to aid Ribeirac to disengage himself from the grasp of his 
adversary, but was closely pursued by Maugiron, who cut open 
his head with a blow of his sword. Livarot let his sword drop, 
and fell on his knees; then Maugiron hastened to give him 
another wound, and he fell aitogether. 

Quelus and Maugiron remained against Antragues. Quelus 
was bleeding, but from slight wounds. 

Antragues comprehended his danger; he had not the least 


wound, but he began to feel tired, so he pushed aside Quelus’ | 


sword and jumped over a barrier; but at the same moment, 
Mauziron attacked him behind; Antragues turned, and Quelus 
profited by this movement to get under the barrier. 

“ He is lost !” thought Chicot. 

* Vive le roi !” cried D’Epernon. 

Silence, if you please, monsieur,” said Antragues. 

At this instant Livarot, of whom no one was thinking, rose on 
his knees, hideous from the blood with which he was covered, 
and plunged his dagger between the shoulders of Maugiron, who 
fell, crying out, “Mon Dieu ! I am killed !” 

Livarot fell back again, fainting. 

“M. de Quelus,” said Antragues, “you are a brave man; 
-yield—I offer you your life.” 

“ And why yield ?” 

* You are wounded, and I am not.” 

“Vive le roi!” cried Quelus ; “I have still my sword!” And 
he rushed on Antragues, who parried the thrust, and, seizing his 
arm, wrested his sword from him, saying, ‘“‘ Now you have it no 
longer.” : 

‘Oh, a sword !” cried Quelus; and, bounding like a tiger on 
Antragues, he threw his arms round him. 

Antragues struck him with his dagger again and again, but 
Quelus managed to seize his hands, and twisted round him like 
a serpent, with arms and legs. Antragues, nearly suffocated, 
reeled and fell, but on the unfortunate Quelus. He managed to 
disengage himself, for Quelus’ powers were failing him, and, 
leaning on one arm, gave him a last blow. 


“Vive ler ” said Quelus, and that was all. The silence 
and terror of death reigned everywhere. ; 





er. 


————— 








THE COMBAT. 307 


Antragues rose, covered with blood, but it was that of his 
enemy. 

D’Epernon made the sign-of the cross, and fled as if he were 
pursued by demons. 

Chicot ran and raised Quelus, whose blood was pouring out 
from nineteen wounds. 

The movement roused him, and he opened his eyes. 

“ Antragues,” said he, “on my honour, I am innocent of the 
death of Bussy.” 

“ Oh! I believe you, monsieur,” cried Antragues, much moved. 

“Fly !” murmured Quelus ; “the king will never forgive you.” 

“T cannot abandon you thus, even to escape the scaffold.” 

“Save yourself, young man,” said Chicot; “do not tempt 
Providence twice in one day.” 

Antragues approached Ribeirac, who still breathed. 

“ Well >” asked he. 

“ We are victors,”said Antragues, in a low tone, not to offend 
Quelus. 

‘‘ Thanks,” said Ribeirac; ‘“ now go.” 

And he fainted again. 

Antragues picked up his own sword, which he had dropped, 
then that of Quelus, which he presented to him. A tear shone 
in the eyes of the dying man. “ We might have been friends,” 
he murmured. 

““ Now fly,” said Chicot ; “ you are worthy of being saved.” 

“* And my companions ?” 

“T will take care of them, as of the king’s friends.” 

Antragues wrapped himself in a cloak which his squire 
handed to him, so that no one might see the blood with which 
he was covered, and, leaving the dead and wounded, he disap- 
peared through the Porte St. Antoine. 





CHAPTER XCVII. 
THE END. 


Tue king, pale with anxiety, and shuddering at the slightest 
noise, employed himself in conjecturing, with the experience of 
a practised man, the time that it would take for the antagonists 
to meet and that the combat would last. 


~< 


wi cHICOT, THE JESTER. 
“iat 


98 


Qa 


Now,” he murmured first, “they are crossing the Rue St. 
Antoine—now they are entering the field—now they have begun.” 
‘and at these words, the poor king, trembling, began to pray. 

Rising again in a few minutes, he cried : 

“Tf Quelus only remembers the thrust I taught him ! As for 
Schomberg, he is so cool that he ought to kill Ribeirac ; Mau- 
ciron, also, should be more than a match for Livarot. But 
D’Epernon, he is lost; fortunately he Is the one of the four 
whom I love least. But if Bussy, the terrible Bussy, after killing 
him, falls on the others ! Ah, my poor friends !” 

“Sire !” said Crillon, at the door. 

“What ! already ?” 

“Sire, I have no news but that the Duc d’Anjou begs to speak 
to your majesty.” 

“What for?” 

“‘ He says that the moment has come for him to tel! you what 


service he rendered your majesty, and that what he has to tell 
you will calm a part of your fears.” 

“ Well, let him come.” 

At this moment they heard a voice crying, “ I must speak to 
the king at once!” 

The king recognised the voice, and opened the door. 

“ Here, St. Luc !’ cried he. “ What isit? But, mon Dieu! 
what is the matter? Are they dead 2” 

Indeed, St. Luc, pale, without hat or sword, and spotted with 
blood, rushed into the king’s room. 

“Sire !” cried he, “ vengeance ! I ask for vengeance !” 

“My poor St. Luc, what is it? You seem in despair.” 

“Sire, one of your subjects, the bravest, noblest, has been 
murdered this night—traitorously murdered !” 

“Of whom do you speak ?” 

“Sire, you do not love him, I know; but he was faithful, 
and, if need were, would have shed all his blood for your 
majesty, else he would not have been my friend.” 

“Ah! said the king, who began to understand; and some- 
thing like a gleam of joy passed over his face. 

“Vengeance, sire, for M. de Bussy !” 

“M. de Bussy P” 

“Yes, M. de Bussy, whom twenty assassins poniarded last 
night. He killed fourteen of them.” 

““M. de Bussy dead 2?” 

Bivies sites 


IT GB IOINTO} 399 


“Then he does not fight this morning ?” 

St. Luc cast a reproachful glance on the king, who turned 
away his head, and, in doing so, saw Crillon still standing at 
the door. He signed to him to bring in the duke. 

“‘No, sire, he will not fight,” said St. Luc; “and that is why 
I ask, not for vengeance—I was wrong to call it so—but for 
justice. I love my king, and am, above all things, jealous of 
his honour, and I think that it is a deplorable service which 
they have rendered to your majesty by killing M. de Bussy.” 

The Duc d’Anjou had just entered, and St. Luc’s words had 
enlightened the king as to the service his brother had boasted 
of having rendered him. 

“Do you know what they will say?” continued St. Luc. 
“They will say, if your friends conquer, that it is because. they 
first murdered Bussy.” 

“And who will dare to say that ?” 

“ Pardieu! every one,” said Crillon. 

“No, monsieur, they shall not say that,” replied the king, 
“ for you shall point out the assassin.” 

“J will name him, sire, to clear your majesty from so heinous 
an accusation,” said St. Luc. 

eWelll: doit.” 

The Duc d’Anjou stood quietly by. 

“Sire,” continued St. Luc, “last night they laid a snare for 
Bussy, while he visited a woman who loved him ; the husband, 
warned bya traitor, came to his house with a troop of assassins ; 
they were everywhere—in the street—in the courtyard, even 
in the garden.” 

In spite of his power over himself, the duke grew pale at 
these last words. 

“ Bussy fought like a lion, sire, but numbers overwhelmed 
him, and——’” 

“And he was killed,” interrupted the king, “and justly ; I 
will certainly not revenge an adulterer.” 

* Sire, I have not finished my tale. The unhappy man, after 
having defended himself for more than half-an-hour in the 
room, after having triumphed over his enemies, escaped, bleed- 
ing, wounded, and mutilated: he only wanted some one to lend 
him a saving hand, which I would have done had I not been 
seized by his assassins, and bound, and gagged. Unfortunately, 
they forgot to take away my sight as well as my speech, for I 
saw two men approach the unlucky Bussy, who was hanging 


% 


s 


400 GHUGOTE SEAS. SESTERS 


on the iron railings. I heard him entreat them for help, for in 
these two men, he had _ the right to reckon on two friends. Well, 
sire, it is horrible to relate-—it was still more horrible to see 
and hear—one ordered him to be shot, and the other obeyed.” 

“And you know the assassins?” cried the king, moved in 
spite of himself. 

‘“‘ Ves,” said St. Luc, and turning to the prince, with an ex- 
pression of intense hatred, he cried, “the assassin, sire, was 
the prince, his friend.” 

The duke stood perfectly quiet and answered, “‘ Yes, M. de 
St. Luc is right ; it was I, and your majesty will appreciate my 
action, for M. de Bussy was my servant, it is true; but this 
morning he was to fight against your majesty.” 

“Vou lie, assassin!” cried St. Luc. ‘“ Bussy, full of wounds, 
his hands cut to pieces, a ball through his shoulder, and hang- 
ing suspended on the iron trellis-work, might have inspired 
pity in his most cruel enemies; they would have succoured 
him. But you, the murderer of La Mole and of Coconnas, you 
killed Bussy, as you have killed, one after another, all your 
friends. You killed Bussy, not because he was the king’s 
enemy, but because he was the confidant of your secrets. Ah! 
Monsoreau knew well your reason for this crime.” 

‘‘Cordieu !” cried Crillon, “ why am I not king 2?” 

“‘They insult me before you, brother,” said the duke, pale 
with terror. 

“Leave us, Crillon,” said the king. 

The officer obeyed. 

“Justice, sire, justice !” cried St. Luc again. 

“ Sire,” said the duke, “ will you punish me for having served 
your majesty’s friends this morning 2” 

“And J,” cried St. Luc, “I say that the cause which you 
espouse is accursed, and will be pursued by the anger of God. 
Sire, when your brother protects our friends, woe to them.” 

The king shuddered. 

Then they heard hasty steps and voices, followed by a deep 
silence; and then, as if a voice from heaven came to confirm 
St. Luc’s words, three blows were struck slowly and solemnly 
on the door by the vigorous arm of Crillon. 

Henri turned deadly pale. 

“Conquered,” cried he; “my poor friends !” 

“What did I tell you, sire?” cried St. Luc. “See how 
murder succeeds.” 


id 
DEE MEN TD: ' 40% 


7 
“ 


But the king saw nothing, heard nothing ; he buried his face 
in his hands, and murmured, “Oh! my poor friends; who 
will tell me about them ?” 

“JT, sire,” said Chicot. 

“ Well !” cried Henri. 

“Two are dead, and the third is dying.” 

“Which is the third ?” 

* Quelus. ” 

‘¢ Where is he ?” 

“ At the Hotel Boissy.” 

The king said no more, but rushed from the room. 

St. Luc had taken Diana home to his wife, and this had kept 
him from appearing sooner at the Louvre. Jeanne passed 
three days and nights watching her through the most frightful 
delirium. 

On the fourth day, Jeanne, overcome by fatigue, went to 
take a little rest: two hours after, when she returned, Diana 
was gone. 

Quelus died at the Hétel Boissy, in the king’s arms, after 
lingering for thirty days. 

Henri was inconsolable. He raised three magnificent tombs 
for his friends, on which their effigies were sculptured, life-size, 
in marble. He had innumerable masses said for them, and 
prayed for their souls himself night and morning. 

For three months Chicot never left his master, and con- 
soled him as well as he could. In the month of September, 
Chicot received the following letter, dated from the Priory of 
Beaume 


“DEAR M. CHICcorT, 

“The air is soft in this place, and the vintage promises 
to be good this year. They say that the king, whose life I saved, 
still grieves much. Bring him to the priory, dear M. Chicot ; 
we will give him wine of 3 1550, which I have discovered in my 
cellar, and which is enough to make one forget the greatest 
griefs ; for I find in the Holy Writ these words, ‘Good wine 
rejoices the heart of man.’ It is in Latin. I will show it you. 
Come, then, dear M. Chicot ; come, with the king, M. d’Eper- 
non, and M. de St. Luc, and we will fatten them all. 

“The reverend prior, 
“Dom GORENEFLOT, 
“Your humble servant and friend. 
26 


4o2 @, CHICOT, THE JESTER 


“P.S.—Tell the king that I have not yet had time to pray 
for the souls of his friends ; but when the vintage is over, I shall 
not fail to do so.” 


«‘ Amen,” said Chicot; ‘“‘here are poor devils well recommended 
? ? 
to Heaven.” 


THE END. 


—— Oo _ 
SILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, SURREY. 






pe a aa 


NOVELS 


VicomtedeBragelonne,2vols, Dumas. 
Lewis Arundel, by Smedley. =i 
Frank Hailes by Smedley. 

Harry Coverdale, by Smedley. 

The Colville Family, by Smedley. 
Monte Cristo, Complete, by Dumas. 
Memoirs of a Physician, by Dumas. 





AT 2s. 6d. 


The Three Musketeers, and Twenty 
Years After, by Dumas. 

The Taking of the Bastile, Dumas. 

Tristram Shandy, and Sentimental 
Journey, by Sterne. 

Carleton’s Traits and Stories of the 
Irish Peasantry, complete edition. 





NOVELS AT TWO SHILLINGS. 


W. H. AINSWORTH. 
Boscobel. 
Manchester Rebels. 
Preston Fight. 
Beau Nash. 


Capt. ARMSTRONG. 
The Two Midshipmen. 
The Medora. 

The War Hawk. 
‘The Young Commander. 


BERTHA H. BUXTON. 
ennie of ‘ The Prince’s.’ 
on! 
Fetterless. 
Great Grenfell Gardens. 


Capt. CHAMIER, 
Life of a Sailor, 
Ben Brace. 
Tom Bowling. 
Jack Adams, 


HENRY COCETON. 
Valentine Vox. 
Stanley Thorn. 


M. CROMMELIN. 
My Love She’s but a 
Lassie Yet, 
Queenie. 
A Jewel of a Girl. 
Orange Lily. 
Black Abbey. 


Mrs. CROWE. 
Night Side of Nature. 
Susan Hopley. 

Linny Lockwood. 


CHAS. DICKENS. 
The Pickwick Papers. 
Sketches by Boz. 
Nicholas Nickleby. 
Oliver Twist. 

Martin Chuzzlewit. 
Gnumaldi, the Clown. 
Dombey and Son. 
ALEX. DUMAS, 
The Half-Brothers. 
Marguerite de Valois. 
The Mohicans of Paria 
The Three Musketeers, 
Twenty Years After. 
Chicot, the Jester. 
The 45 Guardsmen, 





A. B. EDWARDS. 
The Lad¢er of Life. 
Half a Million of Money. 


Miss FERRIER. 
Marriage. 
The Inheritance. 
Destiny. 


FIELDING. 
Tom Jones. 
Joseph Andrews. 
Amelia. 


GERSTAECKER, 
A Wife to Order. 
The Two Convicts. 
The Feathered Arrow. 
Each for Himself. 


G. R. GLEIG, 
Chelsea Veterans. 
The Hussar. 


Mrs. GORE. 
The Money Lender. 
Pin Money. 
The Dowager. 


JAMES GRANT. 
Romance of War. 
The Aide-de-Camp. 
The Scottish Cavalier, 
Bothwell. 

Jane Seton; or, The 
Queen’s Advocate. 

Philip Rollo. 

Legends of the Black 
Watch. 

Mary of Lorraine. 

Oliver Eliis; or, The 
Fusiliers. 

Lucy Arden; or, Holly- 
wood Hall. 

Frank Hilton. 

The Yellow Frigate. 

Harry Ogilvie; or, The 
Black Dragoons, 

Arthur Blane. 

Laura Everingham. 

Captain of the Guard, 

Letty Hyde’s Lovers, 

Cavaliers of Fortune. 

Second to None, 

Constable ox France. 

The Phantom Regiment. 


T 


King’s Own Borderers, 

The White Cockade. 

Dick Rodney. 

First Love & Last Love. 

The Girl He Married. 

Lady Wedderburn’s 
Wish. 

Jack Manly. 

Only an Ensign. 

Adventures of Rob Roy. 

Under the Red Dragon. 

The Queen’s Cadet. 

Shall I Win Her? 

Fairer than a Fairy. 

The Secret Dispatch. 

One of the Six Hundred. 

Morley Ashton. 

Did She Love Him? 

The Ross-shire Buffs. 

Six Years Ago. 

Vere of Ours. 

The Lord Hermitage. 

The Royal Regiment. 

The Duke of Albany’s 
Highlanders. 

The Cameronians. 

The Dead Tryst. 


Author of “Guy 
Livingstone.” 

Guy Livingstone. 
Barren Honour. 
Maurice Dering. 
Brakespeare. 
Anteros. 
Breaking a Butterfly. 
Sans Merci. 
Sword and Gown. 


THEODORE HOOE, 
Peregrine Bunce, 
Cousin Geoffry. 
Gilbert Gurney. 

The Parson’s Daughter, 
All in the Wrong. 
Widow and Marquess. 
Gurney Married. 

Jack Brag. 

Maxwell. 

Man of Many Friends, 
Passion and Principle, 
Merton. 

Gervase Skianer. 
Cousin William. 
Fathers and Sons. 


GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS. 





ES A ST SS SS ——s 





NOVELS AT TW 


G. P. B. JAMES. 
The Brigand. _ 
Morley Ernstein, 
Darnley. 

Richelieu. 
The Gipsy. 
Arabella Stuart. 


Castle 
The Stepmother. 
Forest Days. 
The Huguenot. 
The Man at Arms. 
A Whim and its Con- 
sequences. 
Henry Masterton. 
The Convict. 
Mary of Burgundy. 
Attila. 
Margaret Graham. 
Gowrie. 
Delaware. 
Henry of Guise. 
Dark Scenes of History. | 
The Robber. | 
One in a Thousand. | 
The Smuggler. 
De L’Orme. 
eidelberg. | 
Charles Tyrrell. | 
The False Heir. 
Castleneau. | 
SirTheodore Broughton. 
The Forgery. 
The Gentleman of the 
Old School. | 
The Jacquerie. } 
Philip Augustus. 
The Black Eagle, 
Rose D’Albret. 
The Old Dominion, 
Leonora D’Orco. 
John Marston Hall. 
Beauchamp. 
Arrah Neil. 
My Aunt Pontypool. 


RB. M. JEPHSON. 
Tom Bullkley of Lis- 


sington. 
The Girl He Left Behind 

Him. 
A Pink Wedding. 
The Roll of the Drum. 
With the Colours. 

HENRY KINGSLEY. 
Stretton. 
Old Margaret. 
The Harveys. 
Hornby Mills. 

__ JOHN LANG, 
Will He Marry Her? 
The Ex-Wife. 


—————— 





GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & 


CHARLES LEVER. 
Arthur O’Leary. 

Con — 
Horace Templeton. 
8. LOVER. 

Rory O' More. 
Handy Andy. 

Lord LYTTON. 
Pelham. 
Paul Clifford. 
Eugene Aram. “ 
Last Days of Pompeii. 
Rienzi. 
Leila, and Pilgrims of 

the Khine. 

The Last of the Barons, 
Ernest Maltravers. _ 
Alice; or, The Mysteries. 
Night and Morning. 
Godolphin. 
The Disowned. 
Devereux. 
The Caxtons. 
My Novel, 2 vols. 
Lucretia, 
Harold. 
Zanoni. 
What will He Do witb 

It? 2 vols. 

A Strange Story. 
The Coming Race. 
Kenelm Chillingly. 
The Parisians, 2 vols. 
Falkland, and Zicci. 
Pausanius, 

Capt. MABRYAT. 
(Standard Novels), in bds. 
Jacob Faithful. 

Japhet in Search of a 

Father. 

The King’s Own. 
Midshipman Easy. 
Newton Forster. 
Pacha of Many Tales. 
Rattlin the Reefer. 
The Poacher. 

The Phantom Ship, 
The Dog Fiend. 
Percival Keene. 
Frank Mildmay. 
Peter Simple. 

W. H. MAXWELL. 
Stories of Waterloo. 
Brian O’Linn; or, Luck 

is Everything. 
Captain Blake, 

The Bivouac. 

Hector O' Halloran. 

Captain O’Sullivan. 

Stories of the Penin- 
sular War. 

Wild Sports inthe West. 


W.J.N. NEALE, 
The Lost Ship. 





2 





O SHILLINGS, continued. 


The Captain’s Wife. 
i ae of the Mess. 

e Dutchman, 
Will Wateb. 
Cavendish. | 
Gentleman Jack. | 


Mrs. RADCLIFFE. 
Mysteries of Udolpho. 
Romance of the Forest. 


MAYNE REID. 
The Quadroon. 
The War Trail. 


The Scalp Hunters. 
The Rifle Rangers. 
The Maroon. 
The White Chief. 
The Wild Huntress. 
The White Gauntlet. 
The Half-Blood. 
Headless Horseman. 
Lost Lenore. 
The Hunters’ Feast. 
The Wood Rangers. 
The Tiger Hunter. 
The Boy Slaves. 
The Cliff Climbers. 
The Giraffe Hunters, 
Afloat in the Forest. 
The Ocean Waifs. 
The White Squaw. 
The Fatal Cord. 
The Guerilla Chief. 
RICHARDSON, 
Clarissa Harlowe. 
Pamela. 
Sir Charles Grandison. 


Sir WALTER SCOTT. 

Waverley. _ 

Guy Mannering. 

Old Mortality. 

Heart of Midlothian, 

Rob Roy. 

Ivanhoe. 

The Antiquary. 

Bride of Lammermoor. 

The Black Dwarf,and A 
Legend of Montrose. 

The Monastery. 

The Abbot. 

Kenilworth. 

The Pirate. 

The Fortunes of Nigel. 

Peveril of the Peak, 

Quentin Durward. 

St. Ronan’s Well. 



























Redgauntlet. 

The Betrothed and High- 
land Widow. 

The Talisman, and Two 
Drovers. s 

Woodstock, 


The Fair Maid of P. 
Anne of Geierstei 

Count Robert of Pari 
TheSurgeon’sDaughter. 


SONS. 





ALBERT SMITH. 
The Marchioness 
Brinvilliers. 


Scattergood Family. 
Christopher Tadpole. 


SMOLLETT. 
Roderick Random. 
Humphry Clinker. 
Peregrine Pickle. 

ANNIE THOMAS. 
False Colours. 
The Dower House. 


John Caldigate. 


Mrs. TROLLOPE. 
One Fault. 
The Widow Barnaby. 





(bury. 
Adventures of Mr. Lea- 


The Pottleton Legacy. 


The Cross of Honour. 


ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
GoldenLion of Granpere 


The Ward. 

Love and Jealousy. 
JULES VERNE. 
Adventures of Captain 

Hatteras. 
Twenty Thousand 


Leagues underthe Sea. | 


Five Weeks in a Bal- 


loon, and a Journey to| 


Centre of the Earth. 


Miss WETHERELL, 
The Old Helmet. 
Melbourne House, 
Ellen Montgomery’s 

Bookshelf, 

The Two School Girls, 
The Wide, Wide World. 
Queechy, 


Author of ‘Whitefriars’ 
Whitefriars, 


VARIOUS AUTHORS. 


NOVELS AT TWO SHILLINGS, continued. 
. The Widow Married. 


/ 


Whitehall. 

Ceasar Borgia. 

Owen Tudor. 

The Maid of Orleans, 

Westminster Abbey. 

Madeleine Graham. 

Armourer’s Daughter. 
EDMUND YATES. 

Running the Gauntlet, 

Kissing the Rod. 

The Rock Ahead. 

Black Sheep. 

A Righted Wrong. 

The Yellow Flag. 

The Impending Sword. 

A Waiting Race. 

Broken to Harness. 

Two by Tricks. 

A Silent Witness, [tient. 

Dr. Wainwright’s Pa- 

Wrecked in Port, 

Business of Pleasure, 


Caleb Williams, by Godwin. 
The Scottish Chiets, by Miss Porter. 
Torlogh O’Brien, by Le Fanu. 
The Hour and the Man. Martineau. 
The Pastor's Fireside. Jane Porter, 
The Prairie Bird, by Sir C. Murray, 
The Rifleman, by Capt. Rafter. 
Salathiel, by Dr. Croly. . 
The Clockmaker, by “Sam Slick.” 
The Two Frigates, by Cupples. 
The Bashful Irishman. 
Deeds, Not Words, by M. M. Bell. 
The Secret of a Life, ditto. 
Murder will Out. 
Sir Roland Ashton, by Lady C. Long. 
The Greatest Plague of Life, with 
Cruikshank’s Plates. 
The Attaché, by “Sam Slick.” 
The Green Hand, by Cupples. 
Hajji Baba of Ispahan, by Morier. 
Whom to Marry, with Cruikshank’s 
Plates, (‘Sam Slick.” 
Letter Bag of the Great Western, by 
Black and Gold, by P. Sanders. 
Vidocg, the French Police Spy. 
Gilderoy, by Fittis. 
Singleton Fontenoy, by Hannay. 
The Lamplighter, by Miss Cummins. 
Gideon Giles the Roper. T. Miller, 
The Wandering Jew, by Sue. 
The Mysteries of Paris, ditto. 
Land and Sea Tales, ‘‘ Old Sailor.” 
Mabel Vaughan, by Miss Cummins, 
Peep o’ Day, by Banim. 
‘The Smuggler, ditto. 
Stuart of Dunleath.Hon.Mrs. Norton. 
Adventures of a Strolling Player. 
The Solitary Hunter, by Palisser. 
ee by Mayo. 
on in a Canter, by ‘‘ Old Calabar.” 
Blount Tempest. J.C. M. Bellew. 
¥ 


SSS CS ST + elt 


i 










Mornings at Bow Street, with Cruik- 
shank’s Plates. 

The Arctic Regions. P. L. Simmonds. 

Miss Forrester. Author of ‘‘ Archie 
Lovell.” 

The Pretty Widow, by Chas. Ross, 

Recommended to Mercy. 

Love Stories of English Watering 


Places. 
by Author of 


Saved by a Woman, 
“*No Appeal.” 
At His Gates, by Mrs. Oliphant. 
Helen, by Miss Edgeworth. 
First Lieutenant's Story. Lady Long. 
Clement Lorimer, by A. B. Reach. 
Tom Cringle’s Log. Michael Scoit. 
Private Lite of an Eastern King. 
Hearths & Watchfires. Col. Colomb. 
The City of the Sultan, Miss Pardoe. 
Through the Mist, by Jeanie Hering. 
Tales of the Coastguard. Warneford. 
Leonard Lindsay, by A. B. Reach. 
Traits and Stories of Irish Peasantry, 
1st & and series, 2 vols. Carleton. 
Romance of Military Life. 
Robber of the Rhine, by Ritchie. 
The Polish Lancer, by Reelstab. 
jasber Lyle, by Mrs. Ward. 
lower of the Forest, by St. John. 
Cruise of the Midge, by M. Scott. 
Thaddeus of Warsaw. Jane Porter. 
The Hazelhurst Mystery. 
Les Misérables, by Victor Hugo, 
Love or Lucre, by R. Black. 
Strafford, by H. B. Baker. 
The Prodigal Daughter, Mark Hope. 
Madge Dunraven. (Kingston. 
Roger Kyffin's Ward, by W. H. G. 
Miss Roberts's Fortune. S.Winthrop. 
An Uninhabited House. Mrs.Riddell. 
Children of the Abbey. R. M. Roche. 


GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS. 


_——_- 


_— 


{ 
| 


| 
| 


— 





as 





Windsor Castle. 
The Tower of London. 
The Miser’s Daughter. 
Rookwood. 
Old St. Paul’s. 
Crichton. 
Guy Fawkes. 
The Spendthrift. 

ames the Second. 

he Star Chamber. 
The Flitch of Bacon. 
Lancashire Witches. 
Mervyn Clitheroe. 
Ovingdean Grange. 
St. James’s. 
Auriol. 
Jack Sheppard. 


WM. CARLETON, 
ane Sinclair. 
he Clarionet. 
The Tithe Proctor, 
Fardarougha. 
The Emigrants. 


| NOVELS AT ONE SHILLING. 


W. H. AINSWORTH. 
1 


The Pilot. E 
Last of the Mohicans, 
The Pioneers. 

The Red Rover. 

The Spy. 

Lionel Lincoln, 
The Deerslayer. 
The Pathfinder. 
The Bravo. 

The Waterwitch, 
Two Admirals, 
Satanstoe. 

Afloat and Ashore, 
Wyandotte. 

Eve Effingham. 
Miles Wallingford. 
The Headsman, 
The Prairie. 
Homeward Bound, 
The Borderers. 


ulie de Bourg. 


J.FENIMORE COOPER. 


The Sea Lions, 
Precaution. 

The Oak Openings, 
Mark’s Reef. 

Ned Myers. 
Heidenmauer. 


CHARLES DICKENS. 
Sketches by Boz. 
The Pickwick Papers. 
Oliver Twist. 
Nicholas Nickleby. 


ALEXANDRE DUMAS, | 
The Three Musketeers. | 
Twenty Years After. 

Dr. Basilius. 

The Twin Captains, 
Captain Paul. 


Memoirs of a Physician.| Leila, and The Pilgrims 


2vols. (1s. each.) 

The Chevalier de Mai- 
son Rouge. 

The Queen’s Necklace. 

Countess de Charay. 

Monte Cristo, 2 vols. 
(1s. each.) © 

Nanon. 

The Two Dianas. 

The Black Tulip. 

The Forty-five Guards- 
men. 

The Taking of the Bas- 
tile, 2 vols. (1s. each.) 

Chicot, the Jester. 

The Conspirators, 

Ascanio. 

Page of Duke of Savoy. 

Isabel of Bavaria. 

Beau Tancrede. 

The Regent’s Daughter. 

Pauline. 

Catherine Blum, 

The Ingénue. 

The Russian Gipsy, 

The Watchmaker. 


The Corsican Brothers. | 


VARIOUS AUTHORS. 


ilias Davenant. STEWART. 
The Soldier of Fortune. CuRLING. 
Compulsory Marriage. MaILvarb. ourney. 
Stories of Waterloo. MaxwELL. 
The Divorced. Lady C. Bury. 
The Albatross, KINGSTON. 
Cinq Mars. De VIGny. plete Edition. 
Zingra, the Gipsy. MAILLARD. 
The Little Wife. Mrs. GREY. Three Cruises. 
Adelaide Lindsay. By Author of 

“ Emilia Wyndham.” King Dobbs. 
A family Feud. T. Cooper. | Fairy Water. 
Tom Jones. FIELDING. 
A Week with Mossoo. C. Ross. 


GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS. 





Out for a Holiday with Cook. 
Tristram Shandy, and ASentimental | * 
The Mountaineer of the Atlas. 

The Mysteries of Udolpho. 
Log of the “Water Lily” 
Through the Keyhole. J. M. JePHSON. 


Author of “ George G 
The Hobbses and Dobbses, 


GERALD GRIFFIN. 
The Munster Festivals. 
The Rivals. 

The Colieen Bawn. 


NATH. HAWTHORNE. 

The Scarlet Letter. 

House of Seven Gables. 

Mosses from an Old ! 
Manse. .% 


Lord LYTTON. 


Kenelm Chillingly. 
The Parisians, 2 vols. 
Falkland and Zicci. 
Pelham. 

Paul Clifford. 
Eugene Aram. 
Rienzi. 





a 


of the Rhine. 
The Last of the Barons, 
Ernest Maltravers. 
Godolphin. 
The Disowned, 
Devereux. 


Capt. MARRYAT. 


Peter Simple. 
The King’s Own. 
Midshipman Easy. 
Rattlin the Reefer. 
Pacha of Many Tales. 
Newton Forster. 
acoo Faithful. 
he Dog Fiend. 
Japhet in Search of @ 
Father. 
The Poacher. 
The Phantom Ship, 
Percival Keene. 
Valerie. 
Frank Mildmay. 
Olla Podrida. 
Monsieur Violet. 
The Pirate, and 
Three Cutters. 


SKETCHLEY. 
STERNE. 


W. S. Mayo. 
Com- 
Mrs. RADCLIFFE. 


ouape 











James Hannay, 


“a el 


———————qq—_____—_—. 





mF 


NOVELS AT ONE SHILLING, continued. 


Lily Dawson. 


The Haunted House. GERSTAECKER. 


A Sailor’s Adventures. 


Mrs. Crowe. 


Ditto. 


Ditto. 


Valentine Vox. 


Longbeard, King of the People. 


C. Mackay 
Complete Edition. 
Cockton. 


a TS 


Light and Darkness. 


Pirates of the Mississippi. Ditto. 
The Duke. Mrs. GREY. 


Peregrine Pickle. 


Complete Edition. 
SMOLLETT. 


h 





yNOVELS AT SIXPENCE. 


Lord LYTTON. 


The Author's Copyright Revised 
Edition, in which are given the latest 
vevisions and corrections made by the 
Author, together with the Prefaces he 
wrote to the various Editions of his 
Novels published during hts lifetime. 
No other 6d. Edition contains these Pre- 
faces and Revisions. 


Eugene Aram, with Three Prefaces. 

Godolphin. 

The Last Days of Pompeii, with 
Two Prefaces. 

Rienzi, with Dedication and Two 
Prefaces. 

Ernest Maltravers, with a Preface. 

Paul Clifford, with Two Prefaces. 

Leila, Calderon the Courtier, and 
The Pilgrims of the Rhine, in One 
Volume. ‘ 


CHARLES DICKENS. 

The Pickwick Papers. 2 
Parts (6d. each). 

Nicholas Nickleby. 2 
Parts (6d. each). 

Oliver Twist. 

Sketches by Boz. 


HENRY FIELDING. 
Tom Jones. 2 Vols. (64. 
each). 


Japhet. 


TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 
Roderick Random. 
Peregrine Pickle. 2 Vols. 

(6d. each). 
Humphry Clinker. 
W. H. MAXWELL, 
Author’s Edition. 


Valerie. 





Captain MARRYAT. 


Peter Simple. 
The King’s Own. 
Newton Forster. 
Jacob Faithful. 
Frank Mildmay. 

Pacha of Many Tales. 


Midshipman Easy. 
The Dog Fiend. 
The Phantom Ship, 
Olla Podrida. 
The Poacher. 
Percival Keene. 

Monsieur Violet. 

Rattlin, the Reefer, 


The Pirate, and The 
Three Cutters. 


UNABRIDGED. 


HelNeed and Zicci, with a Prefatory 

ote. 

Pelham, with Dedication. 

The Disowned, with a Preface. 

Devereux, with a Preface. 

Alice ; or, The Mysteries. Sequel to 
“Ernest Maltravers.” ‘ 


New Copyright Volumes. 


NIGHT AND Morninc. 
ZANONI. 
Car 


Do. Part 2 (The Chastisement), 
Do. Part 3 (The Redemption). 
The Mysteries of Paris. 
Part 1 (Morning). 
Part 2 (Noon). 
Part 3 (Night). 


Ditto. 
Ditto, 


The Pilot. 

The Prairie. 
The Spy. 

The Red Rover. 
Homeward Bound. 
Eve Effingham. 
The Two Admirals. 
Miles Wallingford. 
Afloat and Ashore. 


(L. 4.) 


(L. 5.) 


The Pioneers. 
Wyandotte. 
Lionel Lincoln. 
The Bravo. 
The Sea Lions. 
The Headsman. 
Precaution. 
The Oak Openings. 
Heidenmauer, 
Mark’s Reef. 

Ned Myers. 
Satanstoe. 


Joseph Andrews. 
Amelia, 
{ 


Stories of Waterloo. 
The Bivouac: Stories of 
the Peninsular War. 

ma Blake. 


Sports of the West. 


rs 





J. F. COOPER. 


7" Waterwitch. 
The Pathfinder. (L.2.) 
The Deerslayer. (L. I.) 
Last of Mohicans.( L. 3.) 











GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & 


| 

i EUGENE SUE. 
The Wandering Jew. _— 

Part 1 (The Transgression). 


The Borderers. 
Jack Tier. 
Mercedes. 
L.1to5 ave the 
Leather-Stocking Tates. 


SONS. 





| 
| 





oe 


—— SE —_ 


NOVELS AT SIXPENCE, continued. 


Sir WALTER SCOTT. | Lhe Pirate. 
Guy Mannering. 

The Antiquary. 
Ivanhoe. 4 
The Fortunes of Nigel. 
Heart of Midlothian. 
Bride of Lammermoor, 


The Abbot. 


Waverley. Woodstock. : 
Rob Roy. . Anne of Geierstein, 
Kenilworth, 


VARIOUS AUTHORS. 
Robinson Crusoe. DEFOE. 
Colleen Bawn. GERALD GRIFFIN. 
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Sketch Book. WASHINGTON IRVING. 
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192 pages. 


Nightside of Nature. Mrs. CRowe. 


7 


The Monastery. 
Old Mortality. 
Peveril of the Peak, 
Quentin Durward. 
St. Ronan’s Well. 


The Black Dwarf. 


The Betrothed. 


The Fair Maid of Perth. 
Surgeon’s Daughter. 
The Talisman. 

Count Robert of Paris. 
Redgauntlet. 


Mrs. RADCLIFFE. 
Romance of the Forest. 
The Italian. 

Mysteries of Udolpho. 
2 Parts (6d. each). 


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Artemus Ward, his Book, 
Artemus Ward, his Travels. 
The Nasby Papers. 
Major Jack Downin 
Biglow Papers. 1st 
Orpheus C. Kerr. 
Hans Breitmann. 
Josh Billings. / 
Sayings and Doings of § Slick. 
Ist, 2nd, and 3rd series (6d. each). 
Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. 
Professor at the Breakfast Table. 
The Poet at the Breakfast Table. 
* O. W. Hov-mEs. 
Celebrated Jumping ay, 9 M.Twain. 
Luck of Roaring Camp. Bret HARTE 
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The Prince of the House of David. 
The Throne of David. 

The Pillar of Fire. 

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Queechy. — 

Uncle Tom's Cabin, 

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2nd Series (6d. 


ROUTLEDGE’S SIXPENNY SERIES. 


Under the above title, Messrs. GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS ave 
about to produce a Series of the Cheapest Standard Books for 
Youth ever published in this or in any other country. Each book will 
contain front 64 to 80 large pages, in three columns, brevier type, with 
from 40 to 80 Illustrations, well printed by the best London Printers, 


a 


and stitched in a durable paper cover. 


1. ROBINSON CRUSOE. With 40 Illustrations by J.D. WATSON. 80 pp. 
. THE SWISS PAMILY ROBINSON. With 40 Illustrations, 

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. THE BOY’S OWN NATURAL HISTORY. With 300 Illustrations. ~ 

. ZSOP’S FABLES. With too Illustrations. ‘ 

. THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. With 40 Illustrations. ’ 


On AME WwW 


GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS. 
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